The Civilian Assistant
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: Set just after "Thud!" with Vetinari torn between rewarding the Watch for averting war and punishing it for poaching A.E. Pessimal from his Palace staff. The Patrican, a man known for elegant economy, finds a way of doing both - simultaneously.
1. The New Filing Clerk

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* * *

_

Well, that went better than I thought it would!

Commander Sam Vimes leant back in his chair and exhaled. After poaching Pessimal from the Patrician's staff, he had not been looking forward to Vetinari's formal response. Even now, he was certain that the Patrician had some sort of appropriate cerebral vengeance prepared for him – the damn thing was, he was never quite sure what form it would take. You were never sure with Vetinari.

Vimes recognised it as one of those moments where you're waiting for the second shoe to fall, with the added refinement that you're not even sure you heard the first go.

Still, that discussion with Vetinari concerning the report Pessimal had submitted could not, on the face of it, have gone better. Vimes and Carrot had reviewed the main points with Vetinari – and Pessimal had been both fair _and_ had shown a keen insight into policing – and discussed what could be done in those areas where everyone was in agreement about the need for improvement.

"Handling and processing of paperwork, for instance, Sir Samuel. Drumknott here is still very upset about the regrettable incident where Sergeant Colon was left in charge and ended up burning everything rather than read it, are you not, Drumknott?"

The Patrician's secretary had shuddered, with expressive feeling, at the crime of violence against innocent filing.

"That is where we need more literate officers, sir" Carrot had agreed. "Not all that many officers have the ability to read and understand often quite complex documents, and on top of that we're out on the beat doing the job, and we can't always find the time. So it piles up."

"Generally on Sir Samuel's desk" Vetinari observed. "Which is why I believe Pessimal will be a sterling addition to the Watch, and your plan to use him as Watch Adjutant is a sound and practical one. Everything filters through Pessimal, who then provides you with a digest of the most important things. I approve of that. However, I doubt anything can be done about the general low standard of literacy and numeracy in the Watch without reforming the entire system of education in this city. And although I have been discussing a few ideas with the Teachers' Guild, the benefits of any structural change will necessarily take twenty or thirty years to filter through to you. Not a great deal of use when you need the help now."

Vetinari steepled his fingers.

"What I propose to do, Sir Samuel, is to give you a second clerical officer in addition to Pessimal. The person I have in mind comes to the Palace with the very best of references and an impeccable, completely irreproachable, background. However, Drumknott has been hard put to find this person a position within the Palace secretariat which is consistent with their particular talents and abilities."

"Alas, sir." Drumknott emphasised. Vimes looked at him suspiciously. _Did a hint of recent pain and discomfort just flash across Drumknott's face, or am I imagining it?_

"I want to keep a person of such undoubtable skills and talents fairly close to hand and see they get a position commensurate with their abilities. Which is why I propose that the candidate works for the Watch and is charged with establishing a filing and indexing system for you. Call it a database, if you will. This then releases you to fight crime while your administrative needs are being met by suitably qualified and experienced people."

"That sounds very generous and fair, sir" Carrot said, whilst Vimes' more cynical mind wondered _Where's the catch? _

He still wondered that, sitting in the office, drawing on a cigar and enjoying a quiet five minutes. Vetinari had made a very generous offer which on the face of it would be a great help to the Watch. But there would be a sting in the tail, there _had_ to be. Especially after Pessimal.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in , Carrot".

Carrot Ironfoundersson looked a little less self-assured and confident than usual.

_Another row with Angua, _Vimes wondered?

"Sir. The new clerical assistant is here. The one the Patrician recommended to us."

"Bring him in, Carrot."

"Her, sir. It's a her."

Samuel Vimes had encountered many things in his police career. Fire-breathing dragons. Trolls encrusted with lichen. Dwarfen axes at close quarters. Fifty-foot tentacled monstrosities from the Dungeon Dimensions, which he'd evaded only to find a herd of a thousand elephants encroaching on the city. **(1) **Flying coaches. An entire Klatchian army.

But nothing was so menacing and intimidating as the person who marched into his office from behind Carrot, as if she (_he looked again. It was undeniably a "she")_ had every right to do so.

Vimes blinked.

The she-creature looked down her nose at him, through half-moon spectacles, in a manner that wordlessly declared she'd seen better clinging to the sole of her shoe after a walk through the gutter. Even Carrot looked diminished standing next to her.

"Take a seat, Mrs…?"

"Miss!" she corrected him, with another laser glare.

"Miss Fluorine Maccalariat. I am to be your civilian clerk, I believe!"

Vimes considered.

"Oh, yes. But I thought your family worked for the Post Office?"

"My mother, Miss Iodine Maccalariat, currently holds that position. As we believe there can never be more than one Maccalariat at any Post Office branch, the rest of the family are doing such suitable work as we can until such time as Mr von Lipwig chooses to re-open the branches for us."

_Her self-confidence is astounding._thought Vimes. _I get the distinct impression the family believes the Post Office exists for them. I wonder if I can get her in uniform out on the beat?_

"Lord Vetinari emphasises I am to be excused your usual probation period and time spent in uniform. He emphasises I am a civilian assistant and my duties are purely to work in support of the Watch."

She thoughtfully extracted a handkerchief from her sleeve and inspected it. Vimes suppressed a shudder.

"We have, of course, applied for Post Office jobs, as is befitting to our family tradition. Mr von Lipwig has us all on a shortlist so that we may be assigned to Branch offices as they are reopened around the City. Mr von Lipwig is a firm believer that there should be a Maccalariat in every branch. But until then, he referred us all to the Palace with flattering references and letters of introduction, so that His Lordship might avail himself of our services."

_I bet Vetinari loved that, _Vimes reflected. _And now he's passing them on, like lumps of Agatean fireclay with burning fuses in, at a game of Pass the Parcel._

"He referred my sister Chlorine to that nice mr de Worde at the Times, when they needed a receptionist at the front desk. My other sister Bromine is currently working as a medical receptionist for Doctor Lawn at the Free Hospital, and takes _very_ great delight in discouraging malingerers and layabouts. **(2)** "

"I'm sure." said Vimes, weakly.

"And my daughter Phosgene is settling into a career as a junior manager at the Commercial Bank, dealing with delinquent accounts. We have great hopes for her!"

"Indeed." Vimes managed. "Your duties will consist of…"

"Taking the disgusting disorganised sprawling great heaps of paper about this building and turning them into well-ordered and accessible files." she completed he sentence for him.

"And to work with _dear_ A.E. on the ongoing paperwork and filing that the Watch attracts." She paused, and said, wistfully "_Such_ a dear man, A.E. you know he courted me for a while?"

Vimes' head spun. He put the image of A.E. Pessimal's secret love life and the object of his affections firmly out of his head, and said

"Well, you've got the duties down pat. Perhaps a tour of the building?"

Things went from bad to worse.

"You mean…. Commander…. That you only have _one_ set of showers? For _both_ sexes? _That will not do_!" Her words rang around Pseudopolis Yard in the same way a sergeant-major's word of command echoes around a drill square.

She glared at him as if accusing him of condoning sexual depravity on a regular basis.

"Well…yes… but the men know better than to hang around if Sergeant Angua or Sally or Precious want to use them…"

"There are issues of _decency _here, Commander! _Propriety_!"

Vimes gave in.

"Carrot, get a few quotes, would you?"

"A second shower room and all the trimmings, sir. Will do."

Vimes decided not to mention the ongoing problems with peepholes drilled down from the floor above.

"And who cleans the lavatories and showers?"

"That would be Brick, our odd-job troll and janitor. Useful lad. Sergeant Detritus' boy.."

"A _male_ troll? In _female_ toilets?"

"Best sort, ma'am" Carrot said, helpfully.

"I must insist on a female cleaner for female-only areas of the building!"

Vimes decided not to mention the shared locker-rooms at this point. Or any point.

Eventually the horrible interview was over and Miss Maccalariat said she would graciously start work the next morning, on the proviso that the shower arrangements were amended and a lady cleaner was engaged.

Vimes called his senior officer to a conference.

"I've got to employ her. I've already agreed with Vetinari.. But… ideas, anyone?"

"Mrs Hardiman's free, sir." Carrot said. "Lives on Lobclout Alley. She's looking for a light cleaning job."

"Employ her. Get those plumbers' quotes about the new shower room. But what do we do about her?"

Angua grinned. "We _could_put the heat on Mr von Lipwig, sir. Gentle pressure to get him to open up some Post Office branches and take his staff back in house"

"Good. Creative thinking."

"And you never know, sir. We might even get a decent filing system out of it."

* * *

Things carried on going worse the next day.

Miss Maccalariat set herself up in the anteroom to Vimes' office, positioning her desk so that anyone who intended to see Vimes had to go through her first. She also commandeered several large, hitherto unused, rooms on the same floor, as her filing and archiving department. As shelving and racking started to arrive from Dratley's Office Furniture Department, she took it upon herself to give otherwise unoccupied Watchmen some gainful employment by carrying it all up three flights of stairs for her. Brick **(3),** the janitor and odd-job person, normally a genial and friendly young troll, was almost permanently employed in setting up shelving for her, to the detriment of his other jobs. By the end of the first day, he looked fit to seriously test the troll-proof security of Evidence Locker Number Many-Lots **(4),** where Detritus stored troll street drugs reclaimed from their former owners.

And there were other things, too.

Vimes had a snatch-squad ready to go at a side door of the Yard. At the sound of a whistle, they were to make their way out by the parallel roads of Butts Street and Brewer Street and converge on an address in between the two so as to apprehend persons believed to be dealing in contraband imports from Agatea.

"We're looking for jade. Gold, and… _pillow books_". Vimes said. The city didn't mind pornography imports from countries with different moralities; it sustained a thriving Seamstresses' Guild, after all, and the usual gamut of related activities. What the city _did_ mind was not being able to levy a honest rate of tax on such imports, taking the point of view that all pleasures came at a price.

"Timing is everything. I want everyone in place quickly and quietly for one final rush to completely shut down the warehouse before they get a chance to burn any evidence. And nobody escapes, got that? We book 'em _all_."

This was what made Vimes feel alive: this was policing. This made all the bloody paperwork worthwhile. He smiled, feeling happy to be alive. Then he heard the familiar "_Haaar…UM_!" cough behind him. He sighed, and his shoulders sagged slightly.

"Yes, Miss Maccalariat? Keep it brief, would you. Only you've picked an inconvenient time…"

"Commander Vimes! I really must insist on going through these reports with you and discussing several ambiguities and inconsistencies which have arisen. I have a list, here…"

She brandished a large sheet of paper as if it were a broadsword.

"But I'm just about to lead a raid, Miss Maccalariat. Can it wait?"

"_Now_, please, Commander! Or I'll be seriously behind on my work, which _will not do_!"

"Vimes hadn't felt this way since primary school. The old Dame, gin-soaked harridan though she was, had a similar sort of voice with the same sort of harmonics that called for instant obedience. He felt seven again."

"I'll lead the raid, sir" Carrot said, loyally. "You follow us on when you're ready."

There was a snickering, quickly suppressed, from the squad. Wearily, Vimes nodded acquiescence and watched them go.

An hour later he arrived at the scene of the bust to find Carrot supervising the last of the prisoners into a lock-up, and yellow-and-black _CITY WATCH! DO NOTTE CROSSE THYSE LINE! _tape everywhere.

"Sorry you missed it, sir. It went like clockwork!"

Vimes grimaced.

* * *

It was Carrot's turn to face the music a day or two later. Fluorine Maccalariat gate-crashed a senior officers' meeting to complain that if she was to make any sense at all of notes and reports, it began at the top.

"There are five lots of handwriting here belonging to senior officers, and I have to say this is the untidiest and most illegible of the lot. Whose is it, please?"

Vimes raised a weary finger.

"Commander, you really _must _set an example in these things! It would make my job so much easier!" She glared disapprovingly at him. "And whose is this?" She read an example from a Forensic report. Cheerry Littlebottom raised a hand.

"Please can you explain the long scientific terms? Otherwise they're just so much gibberish. And THIS."

She read an extract from one of Carrot's reports.

"Young man, commas are NOT loaded into a crossbow and fired at random onto the paper! Now listen to me. In a spoken discourse pause the comma is a punctuation device inserted into the text at that moment where the speaker might pause for a momentary breath full stop. The full stop is the point where, light breath and comma, the speaker pauses for a deeper breath, light breath and comma, following a longer statement unpunctuated by the need to take breath full stop and deep breath! In between are the two intermediate states where a slightly longer breath is called for, deeper breath and semi-colon; firstly the gap between two clauses, and secondly the pause between two subordinate clauses of a paragraph full colon and deeper breath: you may think of them as a series of progressively longer pauses or intervals of length one, two, three, and four beats respectively.

Punctuation on the page, when done properly, simply seeks to replicate the natural flow and rhythm of spoken discourse. I hope that is clearly understood?"

Carrot's face shone with honest perplexity.

_If she can get him to put commas in the right places, _thought Vimes_, the world is truly changed. _

Sergeant Pessimal quietly said "Perhaps you could relax your standards a little, Fluorine? I know I had to re-examine mine when I joined the Watch. This is a completely different world, after all."

Her eyes and voice softened a little. "I understand what you're saying, dear A.E,. but what would the world be like without recognised standards and people who seek to exemplify them?"

Carrot, Littlebottom and Angua all turned on the change in tone and the "dear", to look at Pessimal, who sat mildly at one end of the table. Vimes suppressed a grin.

"Anyway, Commander, lady…_ladies_… and gentlemen, that's _my_ piece said, for the moment. You might wish to review he filing completed so far, Commander. I'm fairly thoroughly completed on A and B and shell files are set up for the rest."

She withdrew. Angua waited until she could smell her receding down the corridor… that horrible horrible floral essence. Mainly lavender, and artificial lavender at that… and then said, with a delighted smile, " _Dear_ A.E. . _Do_ tell us e_verything_! What are you holding back?"

"Yes!" said Cheery. "You dropped the old witch a gentle hint and she took it and left. What magic have you got in there. A.E.?"

Sergeant Pessimal smiled a thin weak smile, unabashed.

"Well… have you ever wondered where little Maccalariats come from? In her way she's quite lovely, isn't she?"

Angua's mouth dropped open with the sudden horrific realisation. _Somebody_had to … the Maccalariats had been here for generations… they had children…. _Some_ male at _some_ time must have… they were born for office management, as if they were bred for it… so were the Pessimals, born to office work and administration…. _Oh ye gods, no no no_, it's like Igors, they're _bred_ to it and have been for _generation_s… but some trains of thought are too horrible to ride to the terminus.

"How many brothers do you have, A.E.?" asked Vimes.

"Four, sir. A.A., A.B., A.C., and A.D. I'm the youngest."

"Well, yes you _would_be." Vimes said, thoughtfully. "And Miss Maccalariat mentioned a daughter called Phosgene?"

Angua looked at A. with renewed horror. Surely… not…

"We are related, sir, yes".

A wave of horror passed round the table. Seemingly oblivious to it, Pessimal continued:

"My niece Phosgene. Miss Maccalariat is married to my brother A.B. Alas, she preferred him over me."

"And… A.B. is still alive? She didn't bite his head off and eat it at the end of the wedding night?" Vimes inquired.

"Very droll, sir. Very droll indeed. No, they remain happily married. The convention, as always, is that we retain our maiden names. Any daughters are brought up as Maccalariats and any sons as Pessimals. It's not mandatory that our families intermarry and very many of us remain single or even find spouses elsewhere, but we do find it gratifying that the line breeds true."

Everyone went quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.

_I bet only Pessimal is having happy ones, _Vimes reflected, closing his eyes and shuddering inwardly.

"OK" Vimes said, finally. "As you seem to have the knack, A.E., I'm appointing you as Watch liaison with Maccalariat. Any points she has to raise, any ideas, any comments, any requests, go through you first. You have authority to say "yes" if it keeps her out of my hair, but anything likely to run into more than three noughts goes to me for approval."

"Sir, perhaps she could be kept busy reviewing the Widows and Orphans fund accounts. You know you keep meaning to get that on a less ad-hoc basis, and one day you'll find the time." Carrot suggested.

"Good idea!" Vimes said, hoping he wouldn't come to regret it.

* * *

The W&O fund was one of those things that had grown from very small beginnings, back in the old days when Vimes had subsidised three widows and one orphan from his own meagre pay. Only payments in from the City and deductions from individual Watchmen's pay were properly accounted for: these were supplemented by informal and inadvertent donations from the Assassins' Guild and backed by that damned seven million a year in unearned income he got purely by being married to Lady Sybil, a sum which hung around the neck of his proletarian consciousness like a large dead albatross.

Payments out were the problem: Vimes knew that Watch widows were generally honest, to a given value of honesty, and he was fairly sure none of them tried to cheat the system. By arrangement, a widow could turn up at the Yard on the third Thursday of the month and be paid her allowance, including agreed amounts for dependents, and have her name ticked off a list. Any widow could also approach the Fund for one-off big expenses, like new furniture or clothes for the kids. It all seemed to work, in a hazy sort of way, but Pessimal had pointed out that it all needed to be seen to be honest and above-board, which meant keeping absolutely spotless regular accounts. Vimes just hadn't been able to find the time for it. Now he had just the right person….

Miss Maccalariat accepted her new task with enthusiasm, and it kept her quiet for a good three days, during which time Vimes and Carrot were able to get on with normal policing. The only little sour note was when Lance-Corporal Sally von Humpeding grinned toothily at her on the way in and called a cheery "'Morning, Florrie!" at her.

Miss Maccalariat had glared at the vampire constable and dragged her back by sheer force of will, pointing out in no uncertain terms that "Good Morning, Miss Maccalariat!" would be the _only_ approved salutation. Do you understand, young lady?

Sally had mumbled incoherent apology, and reached reassuringly for the phial of emergency b-vord she carried on a string around her neck.

_A minute or two more, Angua, and I swear I would have crumbled! _Sally had said later. _I just wanted to make sure the b… the stuff… was there in a nice thin easily breakable sterile glass phial, just in case…_

_Well, you can't say you've not been told, can you? _

_Oh, be sympathetic, Angua!_

_You could always put the bite on her. Isn't that supposed to make people more docile and manageable?_

_Ha! For one thing, we're choosy. I wouldn't be able to taste her blood for vinegar! And for another, we're not suicidal. What's the betting _she'd_ end up making _me_ a copy of _her_? _

_

* * *

_

Then on the fourth day, she swept into the office.

"Sir Samuel! I have discovered a fraud involving the Widows and Orphans' Fund. These are my findings!"

"OK. Who's involved?"

"One Corporal Nobbs. You will see from the report and figures I have prepared!"

Vimes' heart sank. _Nobby._ He reached for the speaking tube.

"Send Nobbs up, would you? Thank you."

They waited in silence until footsteps sidled down the corridor.

"Come in, Nobby".

Nobbs stepped in, looking furtive. His eyes widened on seeing Miss Maccalariat.

"So this is the culprit!" she announced.

Vimes raised a hand.

"Miss Maccalariat? If you don't mind. I'd like this stage of he investigation to be informal. Just me and corporal Nobbs, if you don't mind. Leaving. Now. I assure you that if the allegations are substantiated, he _will_ be punished for it under Watch rules and accepted custom. Thank you."

Vimes waited for her to leave, and then said, bluntly,

"Nobby, to save me having to actually read this bloody report of hers, you tell me exactly how you're fiddling the Widows and Orphans' Fund? No wriggling. "

Nobby sidled on the spot.

"Well, sir, it's like this…"

A confession emerged.

"So you've got the W&O Fund paying your mother's rent? And bunging her five dollars a week in subsistence money, too."

"She _is _a widow, sir" Nobby said, stolidly looking ahead of him.

"Well, yes, Nobby. But I'm wondering exactly how far you've grasped the essential membership criteria of a Watch widows and orphans fund. The little sticking point here, and I can see it being something of a a sticking point should she demand I run you before Vetinari for theft and fraud, is that your mother, lovely lady though Maisie is, is _not _a Watchman's widow. In fact, your father, Sconner Nobbs, lost his life through misadventure in that he fell off a third-storey roof from which he was engaged in removing the lead at the time. Complications set in and he died a week later."

"He did once consider joining the Watch, sir. Once. When he was sober."

"But I still can't see any way in which he would qualify his widow for a Watch widow's pension, Nobby. There's he sticking point. And I see your mother is also the dependent to whom you have chosen to pay your orphan's compensation money.

"You are claiming money as an orphan. And having it paid on your behalf to your named dependent. Your mother. Do you see anything _wrong _with this picture, Nobby? Nothing out of place, any little detail that's wrong?"

""Well sir, being an orphan's only a matter of time, and after Sconner died I'm halfway there. Why wait?"

Vimes took a deep breath.

"It stops here, Nobby. You'll have to find some other way for Maisie to pay her rent. And in return I'll keep the Maccalariat woman off your back. Now get out of my sight."

"Sir!"

Vimes contemplated for a moment or two, than rang for Pessimal.

"Mr Vimes?"

"A.E., there must be some sort of, I don't know, central record in this city, saying which landlords own which streets and properties."

"I believe you mean the Land Registry at the Palace, sir."

"That's the bunny. I want to know which bloodsucking parasitical bastard leech owns Old Cobblers. Run-down cottages, never had a moment's work done to them since they were built, I bet they belong to that smug bastard Rust or that fat self-satisfied oily little shit Selachii. Some slum landlord who's happy to squeeze them for every penny they've got in rent but who's nowhere to be found when there's a leak in the roof. Get me a name, please, A.E. Then I can negotiate to buy the street. Or at least one house on it."

"Sir?"

"I feel a need to be kind to an old lady who, unavoidably, suddenly has to pay her own rent again. Don't ask".

Pessimal left, looking puzzled, and Vimes formed two questions for Maccalariat. _How much_ closely followed by _If he makes good the losses to the Fund, will you agree to drop charges? _

Nobbs was going to cost him, but Vimes earned – _got _- that Gods-damned seven million a year, and some things.. _it's because in a funny sort of way he's worth it. _You couldn't put a price on thirty years of almost-loyal service.

* * *

Vimes saw that conversation was muted in the canteen, It was replaced by the uncertain sounds of Watchmen trying to self-censor for expletives and to follow hazily remembered principles of table etiquette.

Sighing, he saw the reason: Miss Maccalariat sitting in state over a sandwich and a fancy cake, a napkin and doyley laid out just so, with a little sprig of parsley on the bread and an immaculate side-salad. Pessimal was sitting with her, the only man in the canteen who looked at his ease, and delicately pouring tea from a pot. _From a pot?_

Vimes registered the mute appeal from the Watchmen – _you've got to do something about her, sir, she's driving us all Bursar! – _nodded, and left. He could hear the work on the new shower room coming up to meet him from downstairs, and reflected that Mrs Hardiman, at least, was a find – the place had never looked cleaner.

He received the answer he sought the next day. At the senior offices' meeting, when they got to the "any other business" stage, Pessimal cleared his throat and reminded Vimes:

"You asked me to clear up an issue of land ownership for you, sir. Old Cobblers."

"Oh yes. And the name of the money-grubbing tenant-squeezing parasitical bastard is…?"

Pessimal looked uneasy.

"Go on, Pessimal"

"It's the Duke of Ankh, sir." Pessimal said, eventually.

Angua and Colon tried to conceal their grins.

"Formerly part of the Ramkin family estate, your Grace, but signed over to you on marriage".

Vimes fought back the red-faced furious embarrassment. At least it made some things easier, and it held open possibilities for the future.

"OK, A.E. Send a message out to tell Slant he's got an appointment with me, would you? To do with drawing up freehold deeds for no. 22 Old Cobblers and gifting them to the occupant, a Mrs Maisie Nobbs. And get a builder to go round there and make estimates for all work needing to be done to get the house liveable. I might have more work for the right man in the future. Bills to me. "

Vimes turned and looked round the table.

"I can't help being a landlord." He said. "But I'm buggered if I'm going to be a _slum_ landlord. There's room for a new approach here. A.E., get a full listing of all residential properties that are either in my name or Lady Sybil's, would you? It's time I surveyed my estates and put this seven million a year to _good _use."

"Right away, your Grace."

* * *

There will be a Chapter two, or an extension of this document, when I see more clearly how it finishes, and how Vimes gets rid of his Maccalariat problem. Hopefully there is enough of a story here to entertain and amuse as it stands!

* * *

**_Footnotes and observations:-_**

**(1)** See **Moving Pictures**. The way I see it_, somebody_had to do traffic control on those thousand elephants Dibbler ordered when they arrived in the City. And as Vimes remarked, coppers always get the muckiest jobs.

**(2)**For non-British people, especially Americans: it is true that we have a socialised healthcare system where most medical services (except dentistry) are free on demand. But a staple of the British NHS doctors' surgery is, famously, the ferocious medical receptionist you need to get past so as to be able to see a doctor at all. Her attitude is one of saving her doctor from the burden of being bothered by a horrible NHS-resource consuming malingerer like _you_. Some people choose to either die or get better on their own.

**(3)**At the end of _**Thud!,**_ Brick was being considered for a Watch position. Unfortunately he failed the entrance exam for Troll officers (_Question One: What am your name?{ Dis worth ten points)_), which left Vimes with a tricky decision. In the end, wanting to keep Detritus' adopted son off the streets, Vimes had created the Janitor role for him, where he could be kept off Class-S drugs **(4)** and under Watch tutelage.

**(4)** OK, on our world they're Class A drugs.

4 Number Seven


	2. Vimes, Class Warrior

In the following few days, Sam Vimes had a busy and eventful time. Through Pessimal, he obtained a full list of the streets and properties which he and Lady Sybil owned and from which they derived an income in rents.

He had several long conversations with Sybil. They went out in the coach together and took a look from up close. Young Sam accompanied them: he loved his outings in the coach, and Vimes wasn't against his coming along on this one, to have his proletarian conscience awoken by seeing the foundation of the Ramkin family wealth. He gurgled happily as Ankh-Morpork rolled by the windows, pointing at things of great interest. Sybil looked mournfully out of the window onto a decaying street somewhere in the vicinity of the old meat market, south of the Shades.

"Oh, dear, Sam!" she said, her face falling. "I really had no _idea. _I just knew the money came in from somewhere and piled up in the bank. I never stopped to ask _where from_. But now I know."

"Now we know." Sam echoed her, a serious look on his face.

"It won't do, Sam. It won't do at all. That roof looks like it's about to collapse! And you say we get eighteen dollars a month rent on a house that looks like it's about to collapse at any moment? Didn't anyone tell us? Who lives there?"

"That's the next question." Sam said. "But five dollars fifteen shillings a week on a slum is not my idea of a fair rent. I've asked Pessimal to engage a couple of freelance clerks for me to go through census records and registers to identify the current tenants at every address we own. That'll take a few weeks to complete. And then…"

Sybil clutched Young Sam firmly to herself, drew herself up to her full width, and stuck her jaw out firmly as if daring the world to be so stupid as to try and land a punch on it.

"I'm behind you all the way on this, Sam." she said. "We don't _need_ seven million a year. _Nobody_ needs seven million a year. What you're proposing will hardly dent what we've got in the bank, but it'll make all the difference down here. This idea of _redistribution of wealth_ that you've got sounds like a jolly good one to me!"

She kissed him, proudly. Then frowned. "Ronnie and Charles and Basil and the rest will fight you all the way on this, of course."

"Oh, that's only to be expected." Sam Vimes said, cheerfully. "Where Ronnie's concerned, I'm quite looking forward to a fight. I always do, with Ronnie!"

Sybil laughed. "Oh, Sam, I love you more when you feel the need to kick bottom! You're always so much more alive and vital when you're kicking bottom!"

"Let's do the other thing" Sam suggested, noting the coachman and his mate were showing agitation at their employers being exposed in the street in this part of town. Sam nodded: he knew Willikins would have hand-picked them as having special skills which would come in handy in defence of the Duke and Duchess if any local trouble occurred. But he respected their feelings, and called for the coachman to set off towards Gleam Street. "Get it over with now, shall we? That bloody man and his Girl Friday might as well be of some use, for once."

Sybil nodded, and Young Sam gurgled happily.

"Let's help the Press with their inquiries." Sam concluded, and smiled.

The coach drew up outside the offices of the Ankh-Morpork Times on Gleam Street. A group of Watchmen were doing traffic control duties on the street. Seeing the coach stop where it shouldn't, a troll officer knuckled forward with a bright yellow wheelclamp, only to stumble to a confused halt on seeing Vimes get out of the coach.

Vimes heard a voice desperately shouting _Lance-constable Breezeblock! As you were! _And he grinned again.

"Morning, Fred!" he called, without turning his head. "We'll only be twenty minutes or so."

"Right you are, sir. I'll put a guard on the coach, shall I?"

"As long as that's _all_you put on it." Vimes cautioned, then went to hold the door open for Sybil and Young Sam.

"Say hello to your uncle Fred!"

"'_lo, Fre!'"_ burbled Young Sam, who was then ceremonially presented to the Watchmen. Lady Sybil, aware of her son's status as unofficial Watch mascot, smiled benevolently as he was admired and fussed over.

What always struck Vimes whenever he had occasion to enter the Times building was the impact of the rattle and thunder of the printing presses. It was like a physical blow: Sybil moved serenely through it and Young Sam looked fascinated, if anything, but he knew better than to linger. Without knocking, he walked through the door into the Editorial offices. The door closed behind him, and he nodded appreciation at the Dwarf-designed soundproofing that cut out most of the industrial noise.

Then he realised he was confronted with a….

She lifted her head from the desk, disapproval radiating from behind her half-moon glasses, and the trademark coils of hair perched atop each ear like an angry snail guarding a juicy cauliflower.

"Yes?" she snapped.

"Miss Chlorine Maccalariat?" he hazarded. "I'd quite like five minutes with one of the senior Dwarfs. Either Mr Budonny or Mr Goodmountain will do."

"They are both _very busy_ Dwarfs!" she snapped. "What is the purpose of your visit?"

"I understand the _Times_management still does occasional private printing jobs for private citizens, in order to maximise down-time on the presses. I'd quite like to negociate an order for bulk printing with one of the print-room managers."

Miss Maccalariat took her time leafing through one of several appointments diaries on the desk. With a look of intense disapproval on her face, she finally said:

"As I say, Mr Goodmountain is a _very_ busy Dwarf. I can give him access to you at nine-thirty next Wednesday morning. Who shall I say called?"

Sybil stepped forward, full of fire and indignation. She locked eyes with the Maccalariat.

"The Duchess of Ankh called, that's who. _Here's_ my calling card!."

_Last week at the Palace, Vetinari was banging on about philosophical conundrums. He talked about what might happen if the Irresistible Force met the Unmoveable Object and said that was one of the great mysteries of modern philosophical investigation. He'd give his beard to be standing where I am right now._

Chlorine Maccalariat and Lady Sybil Ramkin glared at each other for some seconds, as if practising the ancient Agatean Zen discipline of arm-wrestling without arms. Then the Maccalariat, like all her sisters a respected of social rank, backed down in the face of _Lady_Sybil Ramkin, _Duchess_of Ankh. And another part of her crumbled in the face of a universal female weakness that even Maccalariats, or the mothers among their ranks, were helpless in the face of.

Young Sam gurgled happily at the funny lady, and this had a diplomatically leavening effect.

"Oh, what a lovely little boy!" she crooned. At this point, William de Worde nervously stepped out from the door behind the Maccalariat's desk. He stopped short on seeing Sam Vimes.

"Relax, William, this isn't official , I'm here as a private citizen."

"Are you _ever_ a private citizen, Sir Samuel?" replied the Times editor, watching his receptionist-monster suddenly reduced to ordinary middle-aged womanhood, in the face of a particularly cute baby.

"Good point, but as it happens, I am." Sam reassured him. He lowered his voice.

"I see Lipwig wished one of them on you as well?"

De Worde nodded, a spasm of pain crossing his face. Sam Vimes patted his shoulder in a very fraternal way. "Looks like Sybil's found the chink in her armour, though."

"You know, Lady Sybil, they're _especially_ darling at this age. My Ammonia, when she was this age, was the most _perfect _little girl!"

"And how many daughters do you have, Miss Maccalariat?"

_Sybil_, thought Sam_. She's gone from "outraged Duchess" to "bonded fellow-mother" in no seconds nothing. And it's working!_

"Ammonia is my oldest, of course. Then there's Epibatidinia. **(1) **and Chlorominia **(2)**is my third. Eppie and Minnie are both at school still, but Ammonia's starting her career as PA to the director of Technomantic Studies, up at the Thaumatological Park. I worry about some of those wizards, as he had a really glazed-over look in his eyes when Ammonia introduced me to him as her boss. _Quite_ unworldly people!"

"So what can I do for you, Commander?" de Worde invited.

"Can one of your clever Dwarves set up and print off six thousand of these for me, please? I've got clerks to fill in the blanks where that's needed, and to stuff the envelopes and put stamps on them."

De Worde read through the handwritten form letter, which Vimes and Sybil had agreed on the previous night, and whistled.

"So the rumour's true, then? A prominent city landowner, believed though not confirmed to be the Duke of Ankh, breaks ranks with the cartel of city landlords who collectively control and dictate rents while providingno benefits for tenants except for the roof over their heads. The Duke is believed to be planning to provide repairs and renovations to his properties at no extra cost to his tenants, a move opposed by Lords Rust, Eorle, Selachii and Venturi who fear a diminution of the income received from rents and who are historically opposed to their tenants having any rights at all. It is also believed that Rust and Selachii, as prominent city landlords, are to raise this issue with the Patrician at the next City Council meeting."

Vimes grinned, wolfishly.

"You print me these letters, William, and I – _we'll_ – give you an exclusive. How's that?"

"Give me two minutes, Sir Samuel, and I'm all yours." De Worde strode off towards he print-room, and paused.

"Sir Samuel, ever since my father…disappeared…. I'm effectively Lord de Worde. I've been researching where a lot of my income comes from, and I like it as little as you do that it comes from being, at least for now, a slum landlord. Whatever you choose to do, you have my support and I'll be watching how you do it. You know, for hints."

Five minutes later, Sam Vimes and his family were in a comfortable office talking to de Worde and his deputy editor, Sacharissa Cripslock. Sacharissa was somewhat handicapped by the fact she'd been graciously allowed to hold Young Sam, who was monopolising her pencil in one set of stubby fingers and scribbling enthusiastically on her notepad. Not that she seemed to mind in the least, a phenomena that was causing William de Worde to manifest a worried frown.

Old Sam stored it up for future reference: the Times' respected investigative journalist could be disarmed by a well-aimed baby. _But just watch it, Sam. She's got a murderously good memory. _

"I was negligient, I'm afraid." Sybil said, with disarming honesty. "I never inquired nor asked into the source of my family's wealth."

"Well, nor did I until I legally ascended to the Lordship" de Worde said, soothingly. "We're both in the same position, my lady. We take it as right and natural and don't trouble ourselves with the small details of how our families came to be nobility. Which makes it more of a shock when we do discover the foundations of our family wealth".

"I'm so glad you agree, my Lord." Sybil said, with feeling. "When Sam took me on a tour of our estates today it was such a shock. I never even knew I owned those streets, and the shocking state they were in! I can't in all good conscience let it continue like this. _Noblesse oblige_, and all that."

"Sometimes I wonder if you're the _only_members of the nobility who are completely aware of what that phrase means and you're the only ones with the willingness to do what it dictates." Sacharissa said, in between jiggling Young Sam on her knee.

"To Lord Rust, for instance, _noblesse oblige_just means throwing the less smelly beggars a few elims and a crust of stale bread every now and again. And then only if they grovel first."

"Anything that puts them to real inconvenience or worse, real financial outlay…" de Worde left the sentence infinished.

"Force of circumstances made me a landlord. I can just about put up with that if it's done properly." Vimes said. "But I'm damned if I'm going to be a _slum_ landlord. That's why I want a new way. A new deal. And this letter I've asked you to print is going out to every one of our tenants. Offering them the chance to have their properties brought up to a decent living standard, paid for, ultimately, by them, out of all the rent monies they're paying to _me_. Ye gods, over the course of a life, most people pay enough in rent to actually _buy_their house several times over!" Vimes paused. A new, radical, subversive idea had just occurred to him. He wondered whether to express it here or save it for the inevitable face-to-face difference of opinion with an empurpled Charles Selachii or Ronald Rust. To be brought out at _just_ the right moment to provoke real fear and anger.

"Sir Samuel, are you advocating that long-term tenants should actually have the right to _buy _the homes they currently rent?" Sacharissa asked, seizing the implication.

"No, but now you come to mention it, it'd an intriguing idea, isn't it? I do rather like the sound… _the right to buy_. Yes, certainly something to think of, in the future, a couple of years from now. But let's get this first proposal up and running. Who's going to want to buy a collapsing slum? Who's going to want to _live_in one? I've already asked Mr Gregson from the Builders' Guild to go to a chosen sample property and make me a quote for work to be done. I'm sure of his assistance in getting the renovation project up and running."

"Another vote in your favour at the City Council meeting, then!" she observed. "I've heard there are going to be complaints and objections raised against your idea."

"Sir Charles from the Guild of Plumbers is also an interested party, as this will ultimately create lots of work for his members." added Vimes.

"But the mere idea of this right-to-buy will really cause trouble!" de Worde observed.

"Which is why I'm sure you'll run this story, and put that part in large type, in tomorrow's Breakfast Edition. I know Lord Rust has the paper read to him while he's shaving, and Lord Selachii reads the Times while his butler pours the gin over his cornflakes."

"Sam, you have a very inventively nasty mind sometimes!" Sybil exclaimed. "Another reason why I'm glad I married you!"

"William, we can run this interview immediately opposite the _Shock! Horror!_Article about the decaying state of the city's rental housing stock." Sacharissa suggested. "With the _Who Is To Blame? _investigative piece, where we explain how difficult it is – how deliberately difficult it is – to trace which City landlord owns which properties."

Sam smiled, appreciatively. There was nothing like a free press.

De Worde ticked off the points on his fingers.

"A tenant moves into a property in the city. Every week, the rent agent, usually accompanied by hired troll muscle, comes knocking on the door to collect an exorbitant amount of rent. The muscle is there both to protect the rent collector, who will be walking around with hundreds of dollars in cash, and to intimidate any potentially difficult tenants or those who are genuinely finding it hard to pay.

"Trolls are also used to evict any tenants who are behind on their rent. The collected rent is then paid on to a land agent, who tallies the books, skims off his commission, and banks the collected monies into a numbered account at one or more of the city banks. These are in turn administered by a nominated member of the Guild of Accountants, who handle the books at a higher level, skim off a professional charge, deal with any tax liabilities, and pay the rest onto the landowner.

"So even before the monies get to the landowner, we have three tiers of vested interests living off the tenant. At each level, an attempt to penetrate to the level above is met with denial, refusal, obfuscation, misdirection and sloth. Therefore, imagine the problems a mere tenant faces if they try to discover who _really_ owns their house. And we know curiosity is often met with intimidation. The people who own, and who benefit from owning, really don't want you to know who exactly owns you. To commission a search at the city's Land Registry costs ten dollars, money beyond the ordinary person's immediate reach. Effectively the landlord knows exactly where to go to collect the rent: but the tenant has no idea who to complain to if the house needs repairs. So the landlords harvest the money, but if the roof falls in, the tenant has no recourse other than to fix it themselves. At nil cost to the landlord.

"Up until today, the big city landlords have acted as an informal cartel to ensure this beneficial, for them, state of affairs remains exactly how it is."

"It's bloody well corrupt." Vimes said, with feeling. "Worse than that, it's criminal. I want it to stop here."

"And how much do you think the renovation scheme will ultimately cost, Sir Samuel?"

"Well, I can trust Mr Gregson not to inflate the estimates or substitute with shoddy materials. And he's aware that city tax _will_ be paid on the work, so I only expect to see _one_ set of builder's bills, one with tax properly calculated. Myself and Lady Sybil have set aside three million dollars as a contingency fund for this work."

"Do you think you might shame other city landlords into following your example?"

"No, because they're beyond shame and embarrassment. _Force_ them, yes".

De worde put down his notebook.

"Thank you for the interview, Sir Samuel. Lady Sybil".

"A real pleasure. William. Sacharissa."

* * *

**(1) Epibatidine** is a poison extracted from tree-frogs. Chlorine-based like many poisons, this is possibly the starting point for the Bursar's dried frog pills.

**(2) Monochloromine **is another of those chlorine-based poisons**. **


	3. The Class Warrior goes to war

In a room lined with glass-fronted shelves of imposing leather-bound books with embossed gold print titles, the zombie sitting behind the desk steepled his fingers, and looked disapprovingly at Sam Vimes. Although he didn't need them, Mr Slant also affected glasses of the pince-nez type, which magnified the disapproval in the old dead eyes. Behind him, the vampire lawyer Mr Morecombe stood, also radiating disapproval, and shaking his head slightly at the folly of a client, even an otherwise undesirable client the practice had acquired unwillingly by dint of his marriage into one of the City's oldest and richest families. It was only the fact that Vimes had been …sanitized… somewhat by the undeniable fact that marriage had made him the richest man in the city which made the association bearable, and Vimes knew it.

But being sanitized by acquisition of money had not made him a natural member of the club of monied men who formed a natural mutual-interest cartel in the City, and the very reason he was here presented ample proof of the fact Vimes was not, and never would be, One Of Us. Mr Slant went through the motions of breathing – some things are psychologically inevitable, even after the physiological need is long gone. All his deep breath managed was to displace some of the dust in the air, and introduce a faint tinge of must and formaldehyde into the atmosphere.

Sam Vimes looked at the steepled fingers, idly thinking that if the zombie steepled them any further, there would be a sudden shower of loose digits across the desk. He was agitated. Good.

"Well, if it is your _wish_, your Grace, then of course we will not hesitate to comply and draw up the necessary documents. But as your lawyer, I really must warn you about the folly of setting such a precedent. It is dangerous and un-wise. No other landlord with holdings in this city would ever countenance giving a _tenant_, outright, the freehold on the property they formerly rented. It's unheard of!"

"Well, you're hearing about it now!" Vimes said, cheerfully. "And yes, it is my wish and desire that Mrs Maisie Nobbs, widow, of 22 Old Cobblers, ceases to be a tenant of the Ramkin Estate and suddenly becomes a woman of property and substance. She's paid enough rent over her life to have bought the damned place twice over!"

"Well, yes, but that's not the point. The point is to ensure a guaranteed and continuous income stream for yourself and Lady Ramkin by renting your properties in perpetuity. The mere fact the tenant will eventually pay more than the equivalent cash value of the property in rent is a legal irrevelance. People too indigent to be able to buy their own homes, people who the banks would look upon as, ah, _sub-prime_ risks for mortgage lending purposes, have _always _rented. And land and property owners such as yourself have always benefited from this. It's the way the world works, Sir Samuel!"

"Maybe the world should change. Don't you think, Mr Slant?"

"If you desire my considered legal opinion, this _novel _way of thinking is _most _unwise!"

"I grant you that it's novel, but please explain to me why new thinking is necessarily unwise?" Vimes asked, playing stupid. He'd been involved with Vetinari at the Palace for long enough now to know the Civil Service mode of thinking, when the secretariat was trying to block or sideline any new development they didn't like, or which changed the status quo too much, or which simply meant too much work for them. Granted, Drumknott was changing all those ingrained attitudes, and Vetinari had his own three-word magic spell for cutting through excessive bureaucracy1, but this sounded very much like Civil Service Block Number One.2 This one means _The current way of thinking serves a lot of people very well indeed, and we see no reason for this happy state of affairs to be altered. _

"Well, it sets a very undesirable precedent, Sir Samuel!"

_Ah! Civil Service Block Number Two. This means: you're upsetting some very vested interests here. _

"Please explain?"

"Well, traditionally, ownership of rental property in the City has been vested in the hands of a select few people, normally members of the nobility. There has always been a _gentlemen's agreement _between them that serves to set rents at a broadly uniform level, so that nobody is charging too much, thus losing business to other landlords, nor are they charging too little, thus undercutting the others. The agreement has always been to maximize rental revenue at the highest rate the market will bear. They are happy to let market forces decide rents and have the power, between them, to fight any attempt to enforce the dead hand of regulation. I understand Lord Vetinari has, happily, been persuaded on several occasions not to press for regulation and legal restriction on the housing market, and has seen sense on this matter. I also understand that out of deference to Lady Ramkin, the cartel of landlords agreed to allow your properties to benefit from their mutual agreement, so that she carries on reaping the maximum reward from her investments in property. It was agreed that as long as you evidently had other things on your mind to busy yourself with, it was best not to draw your attention to this fact, and to let the sleeping dog lie."

"Woof woof!" Vimes said, drily.

"Very droll, Sir Samuel. But you must understand that your interests are best served by maximizing revenue on all the properties you own. Divesting any is like spending your capital. It _is_ spending your capital. A clever man does not do it. And even _one_ property lost is a fall in your net revenue! Can you not see this? And I repeat that giving – not even _selling_ – the freehold on one property to its tenant sets a dangerous precedent. A very dangerous precedent, as when news of this gets out, it will serve to unsettle all tenants who may start to become dissatisfied with the current system, when prior to this insane act of generosity they were perfectly happy!"

"Maybe they were only going along with it because there hasn't been an alternative." Vimes said. "Everyone needs a roof over their head. It's absolutely basic. And if the big property owners get together and ratchet the rents up, even for a slum, there's no alternative other than to pay it. Up until now there's been nowhere else to go. And are you saying that you _won't _fulfil my perfectly reasonable request and draw up ownership deeds for Maisie Nobbs? Just say you won't, or there's a conflict of interests, or something, and I'll soon find another lawyer."

_And quite a few million Ramkin dollars go walking out of your door with me, Slant…_

Mr Slant's shoulders bowed slightly. He turned to Honeycombe.

"Please instruct Mr Lawsy to draw up the documents, would you? Thank you so much. "

Mr Honeycombe left the office.

"I can only repeat that you are making a huge error of judgement, Sir Samuel. Together with this…. _other _business that found its way into the Times, it is my duty as your loyal and obedient servant to advise you that this is entirely the wrong course of action to take!"

_Ah. Civil Service stalling tactic number three, "Please reconsider, you are making a huge mistake". Meaning "I am pretending friendship as a ploy to get you to shelve this idea which I and people who think like me will be seriously inconvenienced by"._

"Advice noted" said Vimes, who was enjoying watching the zombie wriggle on a very large hook. "But just so nobody can say we haven't had a full and frank discussion, what is your preferred course of action?"

"Stop this foolishness now! Join the cartel and go along with accepted practice in these matters! I'll even arrange you an introduction!"

"To Rust, Selachii, Venturi and Eorle?" Vimes shook his head, noting _Bullseye! _"No need, I see at least one of the buggers every other day. No doubt they'll try to persuade me to be a good chap, join their cosy little club, and not make waves. In fact, I rather think they're going to raise it at the next City Council meeting."

Mr Slant paused and frowned. Vimes allowed the silence to drag on. This was as good as an interrogation. And possibly more fun.

"Then they may have a chance to persuade you out of this _radical_ and _innovative _mode of thinking that is clearly prejudicial to the city's best interests!"

"Mr Slant. How is it _not_ in the city's best interests that the general level of housing stock be improved? So that thousands and thousands of people living in Ramkin-owned properties come home to a decently repaired house, rather than a collapsing slum with broken windows, leaky and draughty window-frames, broken and slumping roof-ties, walls in need of pointing and re-plastering, woodwork with both kinds of rot, doors that don't stick, no puddles on the floor _inside _the house…. But hold on, when somebody like you talks about "the City's best interests" he doesn't mean the thousands, does he? By "The City", he means the half-dozen or so _gentlemen _at the top of the heap who actively profit from the way things are and see no reason for change. Well, as Ronnie Rust has confirmed on many an occasion, I'm not a _gentleman_. Never claimed to be. No, Mr Slant, I want to do things differently."

"But it has always been the accepted custom that the tenant, who after all lives in the property, faces the ongoing cost of making good deficiencies and repairing any wear and tear in the building!"

Vimes shook his head.

"Even if they can't afford it? Even if the house belongs to somebody else, has been lived in by quite a lot of people beforehand, and nothing has been done by way of repairs since it was built, up to two hundred years ago? Making the current occupants responsible for making good two hundred years of structural neglect is neither fair nor equitable, mr Slant. The responsibility for that should lie clearly at the feet of the _houseowner _who should be liable for keeping what is, after all, _his _property investment in good order. The tenant should be able to call on the houseowner to make and pay for such repairs as are necessary for the property to be in a fit and livable state. And if the house is at the end of its serviceable life – everything comes to an end – it should be condemned, knocked down, and replaced. I recognize that a tenant who has paid rent to the Ramkin family for ten or twenty years has certain rights in that situation. If a tenant of mine is living in a condemned property, then I find them somewhere else to live, of equivalent worth, while their house is knocked down and rebuilt to modern standards."

"But – this will bite into your revenues! How can I persuade you not to follow this crazy utopian ideal?"

"Really, Mr Slant? My current income is seven million dollars a year. Even before I married Lady Sybil, those seven million dollars a year were still piling up in the Ramkin bank account far faster than they could be spent. Now dragon-breeding may be expensive, but it isn't seven million a year expensive. The last Ramkin with a _really_ expensive hobby, like raising regiments, was Sir Joshua, Sybil's grandfather. Since her father disbanded the last family regiment, getting on for fifty years ago, that seven million a year has just been piling up. Allowing for necessary expenditure and taxes, Mr Slant, I estimate the Ramkin fortune at present to be worth nearly two hundred and fifty million dollars. Which is possibly a cautious under-statement. I would have to be _really _philanthropic to make a serious dent in that sum, do you not agree?"

Vimes grinned mirthlessly at Mr Slant.

"So setting aside three million to enable my tenants to live in comfortable well-repaired houses is the _least _I can do. Any more objections?"

_Slant's desperate, thought Vimes. I can see it in his eyes. Any minute now he'll be up to Civil Service Delaying Tactic Number four…_

"Sir Samuel…" Slant began, with uncharacteristic uncertainty, "…while it might be conceded that your argument has some validity, from the _ethical_ and _moral_ viewpoints, can I ask you, in all earnestness, if this is the right _time _to put such an ambitious and _radical_ plan into operation? Your ideas may well be several years, if not _decades_, in advance of what the world will accept today?"

_And there it is…. Number four. "Is the world ready for this? Is now the right time?" Another recipe for inactivity and maintaining the conservative status-quo._

"Well, Mr Slant, all the more reason to make a start _now_, don't you think? Otherwise it all gets put off into an unspecified future where nothing ever happens."

Mr Slant slumped, imperceptibly.

"But the sheer amount of work involved! Legal searches. Obtaining the sole services of a large corps of builders and artisans for some years to come. At a time when Lord Vetinari needs every skilled labourer he can get for the Undertaking. He may not look kindly on you siphoning off the cream of the city's skilled artisans in a private project, not at this time!"

_Oof. A valid objection, And one Vetinari's bound to raise with me. Think quickly, Sam…_

"As it happens, a substantial part of that three million is going as an endowment to the Builders' Guild School, to expand its premises and training operation to bring a lot more skilled labour into the employment arena. Which will serve Lord Vetinari's best interests as well as mine. More so because I'm paying for it, and it won't cost the City a penny. Seems a lot more productive than raising regiments, don't you think? Training an army of labourers who will then earn good wages working for the City sounds pretty beneficial all round. And speaking of work to be done, Mr Slant, did your clerk prepare the list I requested? Of the names and locations of _**all**_ those letting agents, accountants and rent-collectors who come in between my tenants and me, so they don't know who owns their homes? It strikes me that there's a bit of pruning out that can usefully be done here, to save money. Half of them only exist to make it difficult for the tenants, and to be a parasite on the system, and you may be sure once I've had a chance to look at how it works and how it can be made simpler, there _will _be changes made. Thank you _so_ much, Mr Slant! Now are those deeds ready? Thank you, Mr Lawsy. I see you included the clause about inheritance, in the sad event of Mrs Nobbs leaving this world. _To be divided equally and without favour between the named sons, Errol and Cecil. _That seems all in order!"

Vimes stood up.

Thank you for this consultation, and the work you so kindly did for me, Mr Slant. Please direct the bill to Ramkin Manor. I'll see myself out."

Vimes, grinning, walked out into the street. His next step would be to round up the three surviving Nobbses and hand the title deeds over. Maybe Errol3 and Nobby between them could persuade their dear old mum that she had no need to pay rent any more. Ever. He knew Maisie found it hard to grasp new ideas, these days. But her two sons, the Watchman and the cabaret artiste/actor both kept a close eye and looked after her. Blast, she'd also have to be advised about the builders he was sending round. And speaking of builders, he'd have to sit down and talk logistics with Mr Gregson of the Builders' Guild: things like _how many trained men? How long does it take to train them? How big will the Builders' Guild School need to be to accommodate all the new trainees? How big a cheque do you need to pay for it all? No, just call it a gift from an anonymous benefactor wanting to see young lads get proper skills training rather than drift into crime…. less work for the Watch to do, in the future, too._

_

* * *

_

After talking to Maisie and the Nobbs sons, Vimes made his way back to the Yard, musing on the crap-shoot of genetics and how the same two parents had managed to produce Errol and Nobby in short order. Errol had got _all_ the genes for good looks, in a rather foppish, ethereal, sort of a way4. So much so that there had been nothing left over for Nobby. Similarly, Errol had got all the honesty genes, all the personal cleanliness genes, all the "_not cut out to be another Nobby"_ genes. Vimes also knew Sconner had been so disappointed with his eldest son he had driven him out of town, leading Errol to join Vitoller's Strolling Players to do the female parts, an odyssey that had ultimately led him to Fourecks and the drag circuit, where he'd made a reputation and a fortune. He didn't _need_ half the house on his mother's demise: but his being co-owner would act as a brake on Nobby selling it off for a handful of dollars if he was short of cash, probably to one of the other city landlords, who now would take great delight in spiting Vimes at every turn. He'd also advise Maisie about predators who might try to muscle in, on her not signing any bits of paper for dodgy loans using the house as surety for repayment. Then again, if anyone _ever_ tried that on her, the Watch would lift them, and very strongly advise a cooling-off period was in order. Either _you_ cool off in the tanty, or we rip the agreement up…

Vimes returned to Pseudopolis Yard.

Sybil was sitting in the office, waiting for him. They kissed.

"A good morning with Mr Morecombe, dear?" she asked.

"I got everything I wanted off them, yes". he said. She smiled.

"Good for you, Sam!"

"Where's Young Sam?" he asked. Sybil smiled.

"Remember our morning at the _**Times**_? Well, I thought bringing him here today might make things easier for you and the Watch.."

She put a finger to her lips, and led him to where Miss Maccalariat was displaying her carefully-hidden human side, gurgling and cooing along with the baby and even smiling. She was enjoying herself, filing forgotten.

"I thought the rank and file needed a break, Sam" Sybil said, quietly. "And the Maccalariats are so good with children!"

Vimes smiled. It was turning out to be a Good Day. He stopped by Sergeant Pessimal and asked if he could fix a meeting with Mr Gregson, head of the Builders' Guild.

_And now for the next steps…._

* * *

1 The magic words were _**No Great Rush**_, which always precipitated great bustle and activity among the Palace staff.

2 The Civil Service blocks are taken directly from Sir Humphrey Appleby's persistent blocking of ideas advanced by Jim Hacker, in the great British satirical comedy _**Yes (Prime) Minister. **_

3 Errol Nobbs returns to Ankh-Morpork in my story _**Amateur Night. **_

4 The Roundworld referent is English comic actor Kenneth Williams, who had exactly the same long fluted nose and flared nostrils that had very indirectly led Sybil Ramkin to name a unique dragon after Errol Nobbs. Kenny Wiliams was long, thin, effete, and an almost non-practicing gay with a horror of physical contact, fastidious to an extreme.

As with Sconner Nobs and Errol, Mr williams senior was a Cockney bruiser who was appalled he had fathered such an effete, homosexual, son, often threatening young Kenneth with phhysical violence if he didn't shape up and start acting like a man. Kenny escaped to drama school as soon as he could.


	4. The Builders' Guild School

_**The Civilian Assistant – part four**_

"Commander Vimes?"

Miss Maccalariat's voice radiated disapproval tinged with a little outrage.

"There is a….man…here claiming he has an appointment to see you!"

"Who is he, Miss Maccalariat?" Vimes asked, pretending ignorance. She sniffed, disapprovingly.

"Mr Gregson from the Builder's Guild. And I must say he is _most_ uncouth and ill-mannered! How somebody like that gets to be a Guild President is _completely _beyond me!"

Vimes hid his amusement.

"Show him in, Miss Maccalariat? Thank you."

His visitor was about fifty, with greying curly hair, a pencil stub tucked behind one ear, and old but serviceable working clothes with strangely low-slung trousers.

He grinned a filthy grin at Miss Maccalariat and made as if to slap her bottom.

"Thanks, darlin'!"

She suppressed a shriek, desperately evaded the errant hand, and fled back into the outer office. Vimes was impressed: not many men would try it on with a Maccalariat like that, and many others would have been pulped by her disapproval before now.

Johnny Gregson heaved a huge sigh and slumped into the guest chair. His demeanour changed, becoming apologetic and more businesslike.

"You know, Sam, I hate having to do that, it feels like pandering to expectations. But it seemed the only way to get past her. Get flirtatious and leery, and behave just badly enough to get her to pass me on to somebody else as quickly as she could."

Vimes nodded. They taught classes in Objectionable and Sexist Behaviour at the Builders' Guild School, didn't they... He'd been reading the curriculum lately….

**The Builders' Guild School**

And

**College of Plumbers**

**Mollymog Street **

**Ankh-Morpork**

NON ANTE SEPTEM DIES PROXIMA, SQUIRI

_Supervisory Principal: Mr J. Gregson, MFMB_

_President of the Board of Trustees: Sir Charles Lavatory_

**Our Mission Statement: **to take in boys and turn out fully trained Builders and Plumbers who are fully skilled in all aspects consequent to the trades of Builder, Plumber or Dunnikindiver.

After primary education carried out in the School in literacy, numeracy and other aspects of a general education, boys are encouraged to specialise at age twelve or thirteen along one of our three career pathways.

While some lessons will be common to all three Apprenticeships, each career pathway will have its own syllabus.

The School also caters for in-service further training and education, up to and including the rank of Master Builder or Plumber.

**Curriculum One****(DRAFT)**

**Building.**

_**Module 1.01. Appearance, Dress and Demeanour.:-**_Maintaining the correct professional appearance at all times is vitally important . We will teach the pupil how to:-

_Perform the reverse whistle through the teeth and the circumstances inwhich this is done - ie, when just about to inform the customer that if he thinks it's a matter of cementing a few loose bricks back into the garden wall, he's mistaken. That's deep-down structural damage, is that, and tree roots. We'll have to knock the lot down and rebuild from the ground up. Won't be cheap, squire. _

_Wear their trousers at the approved angle on the hip. Pupils not showing the appropriate degree of buttock cleavage will be disciplined.__**(1)**_

_Lean idly on your spade. The correct insouciant angle, proper bend of leg and inclination of back must be adopted. And where two or three are gathered together leaning on their tools with no apparent labour going on, a Men at Work sign must be put out, by ancient law and statute. _

_(Hergenians only)__ Sing provocative and historically ill-founded rebel songs, while working, about what the bloody Morporkians did to my great-great-great grandparents during the Great Wahoonie Famine of 1845._

_**Module 1.02 Making the tea.**_

This is a vitally important skill for a junior apprentice on a building site. As is the consequent Keeping The Privy In Good Order.

_**Module 1.02a Nipping Down The Shop With Everybody's Sandwich and Snack Orders**_

This is another vital trade skill which the site junior is expected to be able to perform perfectly. Special reference has to be made to Collecting the Money and Making Sure Big Paddy Gets The Correct Change, Or Else You Get A Thick Ear_. (See introductory module __**Mathematics for Builders (**__**2)**__)_

**_Module 1.03b - Getting the Beers In. _**

On his eighteenth birthday, the apprentice is required to fetch 'em in. Before the age of eighteen - here's a shandy, think yourself lucky, lad.

_**Module 1.03 Playing cards**_

Again, a mandatory skill for the builder and useful for those times when rain or inclement weather forces a retreat to the site office. Before you leave the School you will learn at least six card games.

_**Module 1.04 Filling in your betting slip**_

See above. This also involves a geographical awareness of all bookies' shops in the Greater Ankh area. This is part of The Knowledge on which you will be examined, as it is generally down to the junior apprentice to run to the bookies with everyone's betting slips and money and place the bets accurately and promptly, and Gods help you if you get it wrong.

_**Module 1.04 (i) Filling in your betting slip **__**intelligently**_  
We are indebted to our friends at the Gamblers' Guild for providing a visiting lecturer, Dr. Horace "Tipster" Batchelor, who will teach in all aspects of probability theory as it applies to, for eg, steeplechases, the Flat, and whether or not Doughnut Jimmy is up to his old tricks again.

_**Module 1.05 Leering, Letching, Cat-Calling and Being Cheeky Chappies. **_

Ho to respond in the appropriate and approved manner when an attractive woman, defined as _any female between the ages of sixteen and eighty_, passes by your building-site. You will learn the exceptions to this rule, such as _All Witches, Miss Adorah Belle Dearheart, Sergeant Angua of the Watch, Mrs Cake, Licenced Female Assassins, _and _Any Seamstresses Likely To Ask The Agony Aunts To Drop By The Site Office For A Quiet Word. _(NB, this list is not exhaustive.)

NOTE:- As at the Patrician's invitation we are considering going co-educational, we may need to rethink **Module 1.05. **Among our new Zlobenian members of the Guild, Miss Irena Prodorownik is known to have fixed opinions about how women should be treated on a building site. While we acknowledge that she is an excellent scaffolder, and also a former Zlobenian shot-putting champion, it is to be hoped Guild member 10276400 Gerry O'Flaherty gets better soon now the staff of the Lady Sybil have succeeded in removing the scaffolding pole. Our thoughts are with him.

_**Module 1.06: Complaining.**_

Making ill-founded and petulant complaint about working with:-

Howondalandians

Zlobenians

Borogravians

Hergenians

Uberwaldeans

Klatchians

Dwarves

Trolls

Golems.

Points will be awarded for every ill-founded prejudice expressed.

**Section Two: Practical Working Skills. **

**Module 2.01: Masonry.**

i) Rolling up the trouser leg;  
ii) Silly aprons and where to buy them;  
iii) The Handshakes;  
iv) Jehbulon, The Great God of the Building Trade, and His correct worship;

If time allows the course will also cover:-

v) Dressing and squaring rough-cut stone;  
vi) Ornamental stonecarving;

vii) Monumental Masonry (advanced module)

**Module 2.02: Civil Engineering: Basic Principles.**

.i) How to plan necessary roadworks so that one gang is digging up and renewing sewage pipes between the 3rd and the 9th of the month. Ensuring they have finished and made good on the 9th, it is vitally important to ensure a second gang is scheduled to dig up exactly the same stretch of road from the 10th to the 17th to renew water pipes. Timing is everything.

ii) _(Llamedosians only) _Scheduling extensive roadworks on the only road into the country, to last for up to sixteen weeks, coinciding with the annual holiday rush and the arrival of thousands of tourists. Full marks will be given for creative excuses, ie "_Summer is the best time to do this_" and "_You can't expect the lads to work in a Llamedosian winter, can you?_"** (3)**

_____________________________________

Vimes put down the school curriculum.

"You're going to have to streamline things a bit" he said. "And lose 1.05. Especially since the Patrician's said you've got to go co-ed and admit girls. Maybe it's time for a different attitude."

Mr Gregson winced.

"We're up against custom and precedent here, Sam. Guild Council are very conservative in these things. It's only because we're desperate for people who know one end of a hammer from the other that we're employing the Zlobenian women."

"There's your answer, then. And don't even _think _of using the gambit that says you'd love to recruit girls, but there are problems with the plumbing. Your Guild is the _last_ that can get away with that!"

"I agree, Sam, but the other Guild Council members are going to ask if women are up to the physical demands of the job, and are they temperamentally suited to it?"

Sam Vimes grinned.

"Call by my house on your way home. Ask who it is who gets up a ladder and fixes the roof of the dragon pens whenever there's been a little accident. Sybil wouldn't _dream_ of anyone else doing it!"

Mr Gregson nodded.

"And the biggest argument of all..."

"...is quite a lot of Ramkin family dollars waiting to be spent in a good cause. But this syllabus needs revising, Johnny!"

"I agree" said Mr Gregson. And for what it's worth, Sir Charles agrees. He can see the possibilities for expansion that a big cash donation form a benefactor would bring to both our Guilds. If it gets to a big fight in Council, you've certainly got both our votes!"

"OK. So here's the deal. Thirty thousand goes to you now to ensure you've got the land and some start-up capital to begin building a School extension. Got to admit, only you can take a hundred or so apprentices, and give 'em some practical on-the-job training by getting 'em to build their own school! In return, you come back to me with a revised school curriculum. Deal?"

"Deal!" they shook hands on it, and Mr Gregson excused himself to get back to a site. Vimes heard a cheery "Ello, darling!" and a muffled shriek from Miss Maccalariat as he passed through the outer office. He grinned, and got back to reading patrol reports.

**_______________________________________________________________________________**

**(1)** But pupils showing _too much_ buttock cleavage are likely to be arrested by the Watch and charged with mooning or, in extreme cases, indecent exposure. It is vitally important to show moderation.

**(2) **This covers : Differential calculus: defined as calculation of the bill when (a) it is properly itemised, traceable and subject to all relevant City taxes; or (b) paid, no questions asked, with a sack of used dollars and a gentleman's handshake, wink wink.

(3) It's like this. On Roundworld, the county of my birth, Flintshire, is tucked up in the top-right hand corner of Wales right next to Chester and the English border. North Wales is a holiday area for many, many, English people and for a long, long time, the only way of getting to the holiday zone further West was one rather overworked and inadequate road through Flintshire and along the coast. Now Flintshire had to maintain this road, at ruinous coast, but never saw the benefits of any of those hundreds of thousands of visiting English tourists who all preferred to spend their money further West. Worse, all the way from Queensferry through Shotton and Connah's Quay to Flint town and on to Mostyn, the road could become nine or ten miles of slow-moving traffic jam, with desperate English often clogging the side roads through Buckley and Mold and Holywell trying to find a way round the jam. So we had the double whammy of the cost and the inconvenience. Flintshire County Council did not have the money to upgrade or replace the road to cope with the volume of traffic, and general opinion among Flintshire people was, why should we, when it will mainly benefit those tight-fisted bastards in Denbighshire and Conway and points west, who make all the money out of the tourist trade but won't chip in to halp pay the costs, talk about ducks' arses? So Flintshire paid for only just enough to keep the road serviceable, and of course tarmac and cement set better in spring and summer, boyo, sorry if you're being inconvenienced, but if Denbighshire pays half the cost we might think again... this state of bloody-minded intransigence persisted until the British Government chipped in quite a few million to build a brand spanking-new North Wales Coast Road, making the old coast road a quiet peaceful backwater. Oh, and Ellis Peters wrote the **_Brother Cadfael_** books, thus making Holywell a place of pilgrimage for fans of the sleuthing Welsh monk and giving Flintshire something of a tourist trap for the first time ever. (Holywell town is a dump, btw).


	5. Industrial Relations in AnkhMorpork

_**The Civilian Assistant – chapter 5**_

The noise and necessary violence of the arrest having died down to a worrying silence, Vimes and Sergeant Littlebottom cautiously stepped into the building. It was a ramshackle building just off Clay Lane, which had been adapted for troll habitation by bricking up the windows and widening the door, simply by walking through it a few times until it got the message, and the doorframe – and surrounding wall – became more suited to the size and width of trolls. The rough hides used in place of an inner door were bundled up to one side, and the large boulder that trolls rolled into the gap in lieu of a front door had been comprehensively reshaped with a few blows of Detritus' and Bluejohn's huge fists.

"All clear now, sir!" Detritus said, rubbing the knuckles of a huge fist.

Vimes nodded: his sergeant had insisted that, as dese were bad trolls, the Commander should step back until he and Bluejohn had ensured they were no longer in a position to resist arrest. Cheery Littlebottom was here as Scene of Crime Officer to make confirmation of the grounds for arrest: her Dwarvish sight not affected by walking into the gloom, she opened her alchemy kit and started setting up for an on-the-spot analysis.

Vimes knew the only reason for his being here was to ensure there was a witness against the Silicon Anti-Defamation League bringing another action for Watch brutality against Sergeant Detritus. Vimes knew this was the only weak point where Chrysophrase could conceivably get at the otherwise incorruptible troll sergeant who was his life's greatest bane. Vimes being able to personally attest to Detritus having used only the minimal degree of force necessary to detain three criminal trolls usually took the wind out of such allegations, and in any case, he could point out that Trollish was a very physical language, and Trolls love to shout. A troll sergeant loved to shout most of all and most loudly – it was what sergeants were _for_, after all. **(1)**

As Constable Bluejohn dragged three unconscious trolls outside to wait for the catch-wagon, Cheery was meticulously searching the room, which was minimally furnished in Troll style with lichen-covered rocks to sleep on, and not much else. She repeatedly picked things up in tweezers, and dropped the sparkling _somethings_ into an evidence bag. In the meantime, a beaker fizzed and bubbled on the large flat rock that passed for a worksurface. Several bags of white powder sat there awaiting removal as evidence.

"It's almost certainly Slab, sir," Cheery said, anxiously, "but what should we do with _these_?"

She offered him the bag. Vimes noted it was part-full of whole and broken troll teeth: diamonds worth a few thousand dollars at Vortis's. This was tricky. If the SADL got hold of this, it was a new malicious allegation against Detritus: that he was deliberately knocking out troll teeth to profit by selling them on.

Detritus answered her question.

"Put dem in der Lost Property locker at der Yard," he said." If no troll come to claim them in six month, then sell dem and put der money in der Widows and Orphans Fund. Maybe also make donation to der Troll Poverty Relief Fund. If we stick to der rules, SADL ain't got nutting to throw at us!"

"Good idea." Vimes said, nodding. "Do it, Cheery. Get Miss Maccalariat to counter-sign for receipt."

Whatever else might be said about the Maccalariats, Vimes knew they were renowned for scrupulous honesty. If she signed for a bag of troll teeth, SADL couldn't argue with her record-keeping.

Vimes suddenly felt his teeth rattle gently. He swore through chattering teeth.

The latest model of Disorganiser – was it version six or seven? – had done away with all that outmoded "_bingly bingly bong_" nonsense and depended on a silent alarm to alert its owner to updates and reminders. This one vibrated. But it hadn't got the hang of modulating the signal, so its vibration felt like a mild electric shock beginning in Vimes' left-hand britches pocket which reverberated down to his boot-heels and up to his helmet.

Sally von Humpeding, witnessing Vimes being alerted to a message, had joked about saving up for one, and using it for a thankfully unspecified purpose all of her own. Vimes wasn't sure what it was, except that Angua had turned away with shaking shoulders trying to suppress her laughter, and Cheery and Precious Jolson had blushed to their roots. Carrot's look of honest bafflement had made Vimes even more suspicious that some sort of specifically female joke was being played out at the expense of all men in the vicinity.

"But what could she use something that vibrates that strongly _for_, sir?" Carrot had asked. Behind him, Angua had rolled her eyes exasperatedly.

"Don't ask, Carrot. Just don't ask" Vimes had said, resignedly.

And here was the wretched thing again…

He pulled it out of his pocket. The vibration stopped and a smug-looking imp poked its head out.

"Look, can't you turn that bloody thing down?" Vimes hissed.

"You've got to read the manual, Insert-Name-Here!" the imp squeaked. "_Setting intensity of vibratory alarm function_ - It's all on pages three-hundred-and-forty-five to three-hundred-and-ninety-six inclusive!"

Vimes gave up.

"OK. What's the message?"

"City Council Meeting at the Patrician's Palace at eleven-thirty, Insert-Name-Here! Lord Vetinari is very insistent that you attend!"

"Ok, that gives me twenty minutes. Cheery, there's an all-day sandwich shop just round the corner. I need a BLT before I go up to see the Usual Suspects. If you're done here in five minutes and everything's bagged for Detritus to take back to the Yard, I'll stand you one."

"Very kind of you, sir. Mine's an RLT with ketchup!"

Vimes arrived at the Rats Chamber, still chewing a BLT in a paper bag wrapper with every sign of enjoyment. He made sure to arrive a minute or two late: partly out of bloody-mindedness and partly to keep the opposition on the edge. And walking into a room full of Guild leaders with social pretensions, eating proletarian street food, could only set their teeth in edge, whilst he, Vimes, was getting the benefit of the sandwich. Which was all for the good.

Conversation died momentarily as he walked in, and he heard an outraged braying noise coming from the direction of Lord Rust, but then it picked up again. Johnny Gregson of the Builders gave him a smile and a thumbs-up, and there was an appreciative nod from Plumbers leader Sir Charles Lavatory. Vimes felt a bony elbow in his ribs and _smelt _one of the other Guild leaders, a woman who also habitually used proletarian weapons to confound and disconcert her alleged social betters.

He turned and looked into the sort of face that could make Nobby Nobbs seem handsome – well, seem _average_.

Through layers of dirt, towers of warts and a condemned hair non-style, Queen Molly of the Beggars gave him a delighted cackle.

"You've proper put the werewolf in among the banshees this time, Mr Vimes!" **(2) **she said, cackling manically. And, in a lower voice, "You've got my vote. But lots here don't like it!"

Vimes grinned, and took a new bite. It looked like a pretty full Guild turnout, with sixty or more civic dignitaries crammed into the room, mainly men, but with some women.

_But what women! Queen Molly of the Beggars, Rosie Palm of the Seamstresses, Mrs Manger of the Launderers, Miss Dixie "Va Va" Voom of the __Guild of Ecdysiasts, Nautchers, Cancanieres and Exponents of Exotic Dance – the same formidable bloc who have unkindly been called "Vetinari's Groupies" because they are so solidly behind him. And isn't that Sandra Battye from the new Prostitutes' Guild, the ones who do the _**real**_ needlework? _**(3) **_And surely that's…_

"Good morning, your Grace."

"Willikins?" Vimes was torn abruptly from his train of thought.

"I asked Her Ladyship for an indeterminate number of hours off to attend this meeting, Your Grace. She was very happy to grant me leave."

"What brings you here?"

"I belong to the Guild of Butlers and Senior Domestic Servants, Your Grace. The Guild Council saw fit to appoint me as its representative to this meeting to speak for the Guild's membership. I will undertake to discharge that responsibility to the best of my abilities."

"I'm sure you will, Willikins." Vimes said, weakly. He'd never even suspected…

"It was thought I had the independence of mind, Your Grace, to represent the Guild's wishes at a meeting where my employer would be present. It was thought highly likely that, if it came to a vote, any servant depending for his livelihood on one of the other Lords would be constrained to vote or act in a way his employer desired."

"Willikins, you may vote and speak as you please at this meeting. Without sanction or censure". Vimes took a deep breath, and took the words to their only possible conclusion. "Even if it goes against my interests".

Willikins nodded.

"That is exactly what Her Ladyship thought you'd say, Your Grace. She desires me to advise you she is in full agreement."

Vimes sighed. Then he grinned, as Vetinari and Drumknott entered the room, without fanfare or ceremony.

"Let battle commence!"

Vetinari took his place at the head of the table, nearest to the large axe that some malcontent had embedded in it several years previously. He reached out, and thoughtfully twanged the handle, sending a reverberating _thrummmmm!_ noise echoing round the room. Vimes could have sworn that since he…some unknown perpetrator….had embedded the axe, Vetinari had gone one better and had it _tuned._ It certainly silenced the throng of City leaders, who all elected to stand rather than sit. Vimes estimated that nearly seventy Guild representatives and civic leaders were crammed into the room, which might otherwise have comfortably taken fifty.

Satisfied he had everybody's entire attention, Vetinari nodded, ands swept his eyes around the room. Vimes could have sworn he raised an eyebrow for an instant.

"Some new faces, I see" he said, affably. "I'm sure we welcome Lord De Worde, Mrs Battye, Miss Cripslock, Mr Willikins and Miss Band to our number, and I'm sure they will make interesting and insightful contributions in due turn."

Lord Selachii stepped forward. He seemed indignant, or possibly that was his usual default state.

"My Lord, I really must protest. How can we speak freely with representatives of that damnable newspaper here, no doubt taking notes and ready to twist our words in print tomorrow?"

William deWorde stepped forward.

"As it happens, my Lords, I am not here as editor of the Times. Lord Selachii will be among the first to acknowledge that my father, who must now legally be called the late Lord deWorde, was entitled by right of nobility to be present at these meetings as an advisor to the Patrician. Mr Slant will no doubt confirm that after two years', ah, disappearance, with no sign of a body, my father must be presumed legally dead. And therefore, the deWorde title has passed to me as sole living male heir, along with the time-honoured right to be present at City Council meetings as an advisor to the Patrician."

Mr Slant briefly stepped forward to confirm that this was in fact the legal case, noting that if Lord deWorde the elder were to reappear, title would naturally revert to him.

William nodded. "And Miss Cripslock is not here as a Times reporter, but in her capacity as a senior member of the Council of the Guild of Engravers and Printers."

"Indeed, my lord." said Sacharissa Cripslock. "Mr Carney, the Guild President, sends apologies, but he is currently feeling somewhat _unwell_. I am here in his stead representing the Guild's interests".

Vetinari gave her a long interrogative glance, but her face gave nothing away. He smiled, briefly.

"Let the record say Miss Cripslock is here as an acting Guild President" he said. He paused.

"Drumknott, is the attendance record taken? Apologies for absence recorded?"

"As well as apologies from Mr Carney, we have Master Greetling of the Teachers' Guild, and Professor Montgomery-Massingham-Bird of the Archaeologists' Guild, my lord. But each Guild has sent a suitably acceptable accredited representative in their stead, I understand."

"Capital." Vetinari said. Let us move to Item One. The Undertaking."

If Vimes had thought his own actions would be high up the agenda, he would have been disappointed. The first part of the meeting was taken up with reports from the Pony brothers of the Artificers' Guild, and Mr Harry King, of progress made in re-establishing a limited, functioning, sewerage system based on the old Grand Cloaca, with the ultimate objective of making the streets slightly cleaner by flushing human, or at least sentient beings', waste into the Great Sewer and ultimately into the Circle Sea. Mr Pony spoke about the technical and safety issues surrounding breaking down the thick plug of silt that had all but closed the Cloaca's egress higher up the Ankh estuary, and this was necessarily a case of going at it slowly and cautiously, lest the River break back into the Great Sewer and sweep away the labour force with great loss of life. He proposed using golems for the final breakthrough, as these could neither be drowned nor destroyed. Captain Jenkins of the Sailors' Guild raised the issue of how several hundred thousand tons of silt and debris, suddenly swept into the Ankh, might affect navigation into the docks. Mr Pony requested facilities be set aside for members of the Pilots' Guild and Cartographers' Guild to re-survey the shallows and sand-banks, and provide new navigation charts as a matter of urgency. Vetinari conceded the need for a nautical charts sub-committee, and requested Drumknott to make suitable arrangements.

Lord Downey of the Assassins and Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild requested assurances that the Cloaca and associated subterranean features would still be accessible as a resource for use by their Guild members. Mr Pony, a man who after working for Reacher Gilt had lost his awe of those he had once thought of as his social betters, replied that as a matter of course, sirs, all service pathways and access points were being renewed. And would the Guild of Assassins very kindly furnish an up-to-date list if where it had installed traps and pitfalls for use in the education of its students, as he, Mr Pony, doubted very much that his men were paid – or expected to - negotiate pits, tilting slabs, Emergency Drops and the like.

Meanwhile, Harry King raised the delicate issue of, er, troll doodah. There were enough trolls in the city now, a different species with different eating and digestive patterns, for disposal of their bodily waste to present different issues. Dumped in the normal way, it would only re-clog the Cloaca with what we should think of for the purposes of this discussion as fresh silt. He said that his trade operatives were now collecting troll doodah much as they did for humans and dwarves, and suggested that, as it was rock-based and looked like various grades of gravel and loose stone to the human eye, it might be of use re-sold to the building trade as hoggin and underfill for road improvement and renewal.

"Good Gods, man, you propose building new streets out of troll-shit!" exploded Lord Venturi. "Disgusting proposition!"

"Welcome to Ankh-Morpork," murmured Vimes. "Where the streets really _are _paved with.."

"Oh, it's all gold, Sir Samuel!" Harry King assured him. "You just need to look at it in the right way."

"It's not so ridiculous an idea, when you come to do it!" Johnny Gregson remarked. "We've experimented with using trolls do's for sub-surface layers, not to mention as substrate, crag and self-binding gravels, and it works really well."

He saw the baffled faces, and added:-

"The point is, my Lords, this isn't used as the final top layer of a road surface, what you actually _see_. Underneath the surface layer of dressed stone or catsheads or setts, you have two or the layers of finely graded sub-surface which enable rainwater to drain through and off without damaging the road surface. Graded gravels, like trolls' do's, are ideal for that. Cheaper than quarry gravel, too!"

"What do the _trolls_ think about it?" inquired Mrs Manger of the Launderers. Johnny's habitual cheery grin faded.

"Ah, now there's the problem..." he said.

"And I'm sure men of skill and resource can resolve it." Vetinari said, firmly. "I'm gratified that the Undertaking appears to be on schedule and the problems presenting themselves are being resolved as we encounter and identify them. Later on, I shall require the Master of the Royal Mint, the Tax-Gatherer General, Mr Frostrip of the Accountants' Guild, and Mr Turvy of the Royal Bank, to convene a meeting of the Finance and Treasury sub-committee to look into specialised fiscal aspects of the long-term plan. But that specialised financial discussion can wait, for now."

He steepled his fingers.

"Second item. The, ah, General Strike, called by workers in textile, tailoring and weaving factories."

His gaze took in Mrs Battye of the Prostitutes' Guild, who gazed levelly back.

"We traditional old-time _prostitutes_, who deal in a personalised bespoke service performed wholly by hand, have always had the leverage in the marketplace to negotiate adequate and fair recompense for our professional services." she said. There was a pause, while other members of the Council looked first at Sandra Battye, then at Rosemary Palm of the Seamstresses' Guild, and made the necessary mental adjustment.

"However, our Guild has been performing outreach, consciousness-raising and recruitment drives amongst those occupations so far unrepresented and unprotected by a Guild, whose occupational skills can be fairly said to overlap ours, in that needles and thread and cloth are involved. We made wholly reasonable proposals to ownership and management of certain tailoring concerns in and about the Nap Hill region, to do with the pay rates, in-service benefits and working conditions of our members, which were unfortunately rejected out of hand. Therefore the Council had no alternative other than to withdraw Guild labour from the tailoring shops…"

"My Lord, I must complain _most _strenuously!"

The speaker was a fussy little man with a fussy little moustache.

"My workers were _perfectly_ happy before… this woman… got on among them with her seditious whisperings and trouble-stirring! And I must complain about the attitude taken by Commander Vimes in policing this so-called _strike_!"

"Ah yes, Mr Catterail. Do continue. I _so_ like to hear complaints against Sir Samuel, as they _do_ tend to brighten an otherwise dreary day."

Catterail glared at Vimes, who stared stonily back.

"Commander Vimes made it clear from the outset that his sympathies were with the malcontents who withdrew their labour and were trying to blackmail me into making pay rises I cannot afford to give. It's been a poor trading year and I have to take into account - _they_ have to take into account – that there are clothing shops in Agatea that can pay their employees even less!"

"Oh yes." Vetinari murmured, and consulted a file handed to him by Drumknott.

"Mr Ronald Catterail, owner and manager of several tailoring factories in the Nap Hill area. Gross turnover in the last financial year, five million dollars. Materials and overheads, excluding staff pay, two point two million dollars. Staff pay for six hundred employees, one hundred and thirteen thousand six hundred dollars basic pay, a mere ten thousand in exceptional or bonus payments, five hundred and sixty of those employees remaining on the lowest earnings rung of just over three dollars a week. Gross profit, $AM 2,687,000." Vetinari paused.

"Drumknott, there appears to be no record here of city taxes paid by Mr Catterail on his profits? I'm sure we have taken into account his poor trading year, and been lenient in the tax imposition on his business?"

"I shall liaise with Mr Creaser, sir." said Drumknott.

"Capital idea. I'm sure in the event of dispute, Commander Vimes can despatch a squad to collect all relevant financial documentation from Mr Catterail's factories, for independent audit for taxation purposes."

Vimes grinned.

"I'll put my best golem on it, sir. Oh, I'm sorry, Ronald. You don't have any golems any more, do you, to power your treadmills? When they asked for pay so as to be able to buy their contracts back off you, you refused, as I recall, so they voted with their feet and walked out. Which meant you had to pay trolls to do it! And speaking of trolls, my Watchmen policing the picket line at the factory gates had cause to detain several large ones who were seen walking down Nap Hill with intent. After patient questioning from Sergeant Detritus, they informed us they'd been hired by you to rough up the strikers, and intimidate them back to work. Which, if we're talking about the rule of law needing to be upheld at all times, and I do agree with you, it does, is a prima facie case of Breach of The Peace as well as conspiracy to cause GBH, impeding citizens going about their lawful business on the King's highway, and anything else I can think of to throw at you."

"Now see here, Vimes, I don't like your attitude! That so-called picket line is an _unlawful assembly_ and you refuse to disperse it! "

Vimes scowled.

"Sorry, Ronald. There are no laws against being on strike. People are free to withdraw their labour. There are no laws against picketing the gates of a factory where an industrial dispute exists. There are no laws against strikers seeking to peaceably persuade, what's the word.,…"

"Scab labour, Sir Samuel. Blacklegs." Sandra said, helpfully.

"independently contracted non-Guild labour from entering your factory premises. You have a right to exclude Mrs Battye from any premises you own, and she respects that, so I have no cause to arrest her. But she as a Guild leader has _every _right to speak to her members. If she chooses to do it at a rally outside your factory, that's lawful."

"My Lord, we must have an Industrial Relations bill!" Catterail petitioned. "Vimes has just outlined a series of gaps in the law that need to be remedied!"**(4)**

"I agree!" said the head of the Merchant's Guild.

"We can't have them dictating to us what they think they should be paid!" said Lord Downey of the Assassins. "What if it spreads and _domestic servants_ get the idea they can go on strike?"

Mr Willikins of the Butler's Guild made a discreet cough.

"I should vouchsafe that the Council of the Guild of Butlers and Senior Domestic Servants has indeed passed a resolution in support of the strikers." he said, smoothly. "With a caveat to the effect that we hope the disputed issues of pay and conditions are resolved soon to the full satisfaction of all concerned, as speaking for myself, I am responsible for ensuring all domestic servants in the Ramkin family household present a fitting and cleanly uniform appearance. I can hardly ensure this when the industrial concerns manufacturing those said uniforms have temporarily ceased to do so, and we are having to make do and mend. I am further assured this is also a concern for my peers in other Houeholds."

"And my Watch recruits are looking a bit scruffy, as I'm down to the last few articles of basic kit in stores." Vimes said, supporting him. "But I'm not going to interfere in a lawful and legitimate industrial dispute." _Besides, I go a long way further back with Sandra than she realises. I like her, for one thing, and for another, I know what it feels like to be thumped over the head by her with a wooden mushroom. _**(5)**

Captain Jenkins of the Sailors' Guild cleared his throat.

"Er…I'm not taking sides or anything, but I hope everyone realises there are ships in harbour that can't refit because there's nobody out there at the moment to sew new sails for us. This is delaying outbound sailings. It also means if ships are docked up that can't get _out_ because they haven't been able to rig new sails, inbound ships can't get _in_ to unload cargo. Oh, my crews can sew a makeshift sail, after a fashion, but one of the points about being in port is that you don't need to, you can get a better job done by the sailmakers' ashore. Anyway, just try rounding my crew up to sew sails, when they've been paid off and they're in port!"

"Point appreciated, Captain." Vetinari said, steepling his fingers.

Sandra Battye was radiating quiet confidence and unshakeable belief in the power of organised labour. Mr Catterail just looked defeated.

Mr Catterail, Mrs Battye, have you considered the time may be right for some arbitration? We'll speak privately later. And Item Four on the agenda…oh yes. The novel and brave ideas of the Duke of Ankh, concerning _social housing_."

Vimes took a deep breath. This was it.

_{Definitely to be continued. But this is already sixteen pages and 4,500 words of a Word document, so insert chapter break __**here**__ at the crucial moment, and post.} _

* * *

**(1)** And Vimes could add, nastily, that trolls arrested by Detritus were still alive afterwards, as opposed to, say, being only fit to build a rockery out of.

**(2) **In a less dangerous city, Queen Molly might have used the usual simile of putting the cat in among the pigeons.

**(3**) I'm sure you'll have read my fic_**The New Guild, **_but if not….

**(4) **Anti-trade union legislation in the 1970's and 1980's, enacted by Conservative governments, took these ancient freedoms away from British trade unionists or at least severely curtailed them. Mrs Thatcher really did block what she saw as " a series of loopholes in the law", and blatantly twisted union and industrial dispute laws in favour of employers. In this she was helped by a police force, which most notoriously during the Miners' Strike of 1984-85, made it abundantly clear who was paying their wages. None of Thatcher's anti-union laws have been repealed by a supposedly "Labour" government since. Here, Vimes is impartially applying the law as it should have been applied – making him unique among police chiefs.

**(5) **See Terry Pratchett's _**Night Watch**_**. **


	6. The Vote, part one

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter Six**_

As if a dam had burst, Vetinari was assailed on all sides with savage glares and cries of _My Lord, this is intolerable!,,,, Drop in revenues… income would go right down… this is unfair and uncalled for… the tenant lives there, they should pay the consequent costs…doesn't he think I've got better things to do than listen to me tenants and gratify their every little whim…no gentleman… you own land yourself, my Lord! _

Vetinari raised a hand for silence.

Vimes saw he was being mobbed by the old-school Lords: Rust, Selachii, Eorle, Omnius and Venturi had formed a solid block, supported by Mr Slant and Mr Frostrip of the Accountants' Guild. Lord Downey was nearby, with Doctor Whiteface of the Fools' Guild and Hughnon Ridcully the Chief Priest, but they had taken care to put distance between themselves and the property-owners' bloc. Vimes reflected that the Assassins owned a lot of land and property around the city and derived revenue from it, and Downey himself was in his own right a property-owner. As for High Priest Ridcully, well, churches had _always_ diversified into land and property, hadn't they? All those tithes and regular collection plates must add up, and there was no sounder investment than land. And weren't the Ridcully Brothers masters of large estates out in the Sto country? And how much of the city was owned by the University? He also knew that where money was concerned, the Clowns and Fools were no idiots, and were one of the richest Guilds in the city.

The rest of the guild leaders and civic dignitaries were looking quiet and thoughtful, although Mr Gregson of the Builders and Sir Charles of the Plumbers were discreetly making thumbs-up gestures at Vimes. And Sacharissa Cripslock, denied a notebook and pencil, appeared to be taking advantage of the momentary consternation to surreptitiously activate one of those clever little micro-imp recording devices to pick up the debate, no doubt for publication later.

Vetinari's stony silence forced quiet on the vested interests besieging him. He nodded.

"Let us review the developments so far." He said, in a neutral voice. "Having found opportunity to review their property investments around the city, the Duke and Duchess of Ankh are by all accounts not happy with what they see. Perceiving themselves as being the beneficiaries of inflated rents paid by tenants of decaying slum properties who otherwise have no choice of where to live, they are proposing to set the historical record straight by instituting a programme of improvements to bring their houses to a basic standard of repair, at their own expense and at nil cost to the tenant.

"Furthermore, the Duke of Ankh is proposing the introduction of what are called _tenancy agreements_, which he visualises as a legally binding contract establishing the rights – and indeed, the obligations – of both tenant and property-owner. This would replace the old common-law agreement which set out an informal and unwritten contract, which in its essence said that if the tenant paid rent on demand, they _might_ escape being evicted. No other rights were conferred on the tenant, nor any obligation upon the property-owner.

"Clauses which the Duke wishes to introduce into such agreements would include, but not be limited to, novel concepts such as security of tenure. I understand this to mean that so long as the rent is paid and other conditions of rental are adhered to, the tenant may _not_ be summarily evicted and has the right to live in the property for a mutually agreed period of time, subject to renewal agreed by both parties."

Vetinari paused as another wave of outraged protest bubbled up. It died down under his calm patient glare.

"Other conditions in such a tenancy agreement might include clear agreement as to the duties of the tenant – keeping the premises clean and orderly, disposing of all waste, not running a business from residential premises, or indulging in wanton vandalism or other forms of anti-social behaviour. In return, necessary structural repairs and routine upkeep will be paid for by the landlord in their entirety. Where the landlord owns the entire street, he will also undertake to provide road repairs and adequate lighting at night as a goodwill gesture, but will not be responsible for paying Thieves Guild premiums nor compensation for injuries happening in the street. Rents will be periodically reviewed and agreed with tenants' representatives. Tenants will be encouraged to elect their own representatives who will discuss issues relating to housing with the Duke or his representatives. "

Vetinari paused.

"This all seems eminently reasonable." he said, as another storm of protest rose up.

"And to my mind, a long overdue step forward for the City."

"This will beggar us, my Lord!" Eorle objected. Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"Really, my Lord? The Duke of Eorle…thank you, Drumknott… total income from rents in the city of Morpork alone, two million four hundred thousand dollars annually. Drumknott, there's another of those regrettable gaps here, under "total tax paid"?"

"I'll look into it, my Lord".

"Capital. Your grace, how exactly will this beggar you? Sir Samuel is only making public what he proposes to do with his own estates, with the informed consent of his wife. I'm not aware that at any point, despite interesting speculation in the Times, he has asked for this to be made legally binding on _all_ city property owners. Although I understand that hitherto, you have all operated from, and indeed absolutely insisted on the importance of, a level playing field where all players operate according to _exactly_ the same rules. I believe you call this the _cartel_, hmmm? Well, one option is to ensure a level playing field is still provided."

Eorle ran a finger round the inside of his collar, as if it were suddenly getting too hot for him. Venturi and Omnius looked equally shifty.

"And there is the problem, my lord!" barked Lord Rust, who hadn't noticed the subtle threat in Vetinari's words. "A _gentleman_ knows instinctively what is right and proper and does not need other _gentlemen_ to remind him! . We have operated property rental and rents in this city under a gentleman's agreement under which _everyone_ has prospered. We even resolved, as _gentlemen_, to allow Lady Ramkin to continue to benefit from the agreement despite her highly unsuitable marriage! But Sir Samuel Vimes is no _gentleman_! Or he would not be seeking to undermine the foundation of our wealth in this way!"

"I never claimed to be a gentleman, Ronnie. Never have and never will do." Vimes said, levelly. "And are you going to rethink that statement, where you just said "everyone has prospered" ? I can think of the best part of a million people who haven't. Where only ten or a dozen at most have. And that ten or a dozen are "_everybody_", Ronnie? I wouldn't accept that in a witness statement."

"Lord Vetinari, I demand you prevent Vimes from doing this!" rust shouted, veins going purple in his neck and forehead. "It's the greatest threat to our position in society that I have ever known!"

"You _demand, _my Lord?" Vetinari asked, in a low cold voice. Even Rust knew he'd gone a step too far. In front of an enthralled audience, of whom Vimes knew two for sure had concealed imp-recorders and access to a major newspaper, Rust stepped back from the brink.

"I _ask_, Havelock. I strongly _urge_." Rust said, backing down with a hitherto unsuspected ability for self-protection.

Vetinari nodded. He accepted another file from Drumknott, with thanks.

"Explain how this represents a critical threat to your social standing, Lord Rust, if you please." Vetinari requested. "I repeat these proposed changes to the, ah, level playing field, are being carried out of his own free will by the Duke of Ankh and there are, so far, no plans to make them compulsory on all property owners. You will be able, at least for the minute, to carry on administering your own properties as you see fit. As is your right. Just as Sir Samuel is administering his own estates as he sees fit. _As is his right._ I would only step in and impose a ruling if the actions of any City property owner were clearly and undeniably demonstrated to be against the wider interests of the City. As is _my_ right."

"But, my Lord, Vimes' actions are against the interests of the City! If he is allowed to go ahead and do as he pleases, it will destabilise the housing market in this City. Potential tenants will go to him for preference, as he will be perceived to be offering lower rates and these damnable fringe benefits. They will rent with _us_ for only so long as they have to, until they can get a Vimes-Ramkin tenancy. This will hurt our rent revenues. I ask you, my Lord, if I am forced to divert my resources to unproductive and expensive house repairs and these other hindrances on the operation of a free market, how can I then raise Regiments to serve the City in its hour of need? "

Rust stood back as if this was an unassailable argument; Venturi, slightly brighter, put his hand in front of his eyes in despair. Vetinari paused and reflected. His fingers steepled again.

"Ah yes. Raising regiments. To be used in the City's hour of need. The last time we had one of those was over Leshp, as I recall. I also recall you marching into the Oblong Office, in general's uniform, and such a fine uniform it was, to suggest to me that I stood down for the duration of the emergency to allow a more suitably qualified candidate to take over as Patrician. To make my reflections easier, you kindly informed me that your Regiments were paraded in the street outside, and you were sure a man of peace such as myself would not countenance un-necessary bloodshed."

The Patrician leaned back slightly and smiled at Rust.

"And if I chose to watch closely how Sir Samuel's little social experiment works out, say for a year or so, and if I were to be convinced through practical observation and experiment that it was of benefit to the city, and enacted law to enforce it on you and the other property-owners, a regrettable side-effect would be your having less money available to raise Regiments. Ah yes. _Most_ regrettable!"

Low laughter ran around the room. Although not all were native Ankh-Morporkians, the civic leaders were like any other citizens: they relished good street theatre. And this was the best.

Vetinari smiled.

"And the last of Sir Samuel's proposals, which even he agrees is one that should be set aside for the present and allowed to come to maturity much later, if at all. Given that over the course of a life, a working person will spend twice as much in rent as the house they rent is worth, the proposal has been made to convert that rent into a mortgage, and offer long standing tenants, who are in good repute, the _right to buy."_

There was another bust of loud and angry protest and a fresh round of deathly glares at Vimes, who grinned. _Who's it hurting? _He noticed Dr Whiteface and Downey had joined in the protest, but Queen Molly was grinning with delight, and other Guild leaders seemed very happy to look upon the faces of the Lords and the leaders of the richest Guilds. Lord Selachii had empurpled to the point where he appeared on the point of bursting.

Scrote Jones, president of the Gamblers' Guild, amiably patted Vimes on the shoulder.

"I've got to hand it to you, Sam. You were five to three against to get away with this last night. Now it looks more like evens. Then again, the Patrician's the zero on the roulette wheel."

"The edge that gives the house advantage in the long run."

"Always has been!."

Scrote tipped the green glass visor of office in respect and acknowledgement.

"Keep 'em coming, Sam. You're good for business!"

Vetinari raised a hand for silence.

"Is the representative from the Doctors' Guild present?"

Doctor Mossy Lawn made his way forwards.

"Doctor, did you do the research I asked you to prepare for this meeting?"

"Yes, my Lord."

The Doctor cleared his throat. "If I have your permission to proceed? Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, the Patrician asked me to provide evidence, or otherwise, concerning the prevalence and causes of common diseases among the majority of people resident in Ankh-Morpork. This is a huge area for study, and we at the Ankh-Morpork Medical Association are resolved to perform this research thoroughly and meticulously over the next few years with the assistance of scholarly colleagues from the Guilds of Historians, Statisticians and Economists who will all have their input to make. In the short amount of time available in the period preceding this meeting, we were able to perform an interim study which we can present to this assembly for its consideration. I will present the findings in layman's terms, although the scientific basis of the research will be available for anyone to study."

Dr Lawn cleared his throat again.

"The preliminary research is necessarily partial and incomplete, but it establishes beyond any doubt that there is a clear and unmistakeable correlation between poverty, poor living conditions, and ill-health and premature death."

"Well, are you surprised?" Lord Venturi snorted. "'Damn people are too ignorant to wash, keep coal in the bath, and can't keep their houses in good repair. There's your correlation!"

"Ah yes." Vimes said. "Amazing how two hundred years without adequate maintenance turns a house into a pigsty. Some people just can't be trusted with property, can they?"

Venturi shot Vimes a killer look. Vimes returned it with just the merest hint of a smile.

"I'll seek to be brief. As I say, copies of the whole research paper have been lodged with Mr Drumknott for the further guidance of interested people, and the Librarian at Unseen University has also received complimentary copies. The relationship between poverty and premature death, and between sub-standard housing and general ill-health, has, I believe, been proven beyond doubt. The A.M.M.A. has also looked at a control group of the city population, resident in Scoone Avenue, Kingsway and Park Drive, and from their medical records, together with census information provided by the Historians' Guild, has established that people in these districts of the City live on average ten years longer, are generally healthier, and are less prone to debilitating or infectious disease. In fact, the diseases found here are generally those of affluence: alcoholism, gout, obesity, and so on. This is indirect proof that substantiates the central hypothesis, as generally speaking, the property _renters_ live in Morpork, in tightly packed overcrowded damp and insanitary conditions. The property _owners_, on the other hand, live in Ankh, in large spacious houses in good repair, and generally have incomes twenty times, and very often much more than that, of the poorest."

"Well, that's because the damn' poor breed like rats!" Lord Rust barked, viciously. "Of course they'll overcrowd, man! Not my worry, as long as they pay the rent on time!"

"The poor are also worn down by seven days' work out of eight, of twelve to fourteen hours duration, often manual labour carried out in dangerous conditions. This allows little time for other necessities of life, such as eating an adequate diet, for instance, or performing essential maintenance, even if they could afford the materials and the services of a skilled builder. In damp overcrowded houses where the only water source is often a communal pump in the street, personal hygiene suffers. Not, my Lord, for personal neglect, but for lack of time and opportunity. Even _firewood_ costs, for fripperies like heating water for a bath. And that water has to be hauled from the communal pump first! After fourteen hours work, many are too tired to do more than the minimum. This increases the risk of disease, be it pulmonary, dermal, or gastric. Poor diet also contributes. So much of a person's weekly income is taken in rent that other household necessaries are cut to the bone, such as the food bill.

"Mr Betteridge of the Historians' Guild reminds me that when the last of the Empire collapsed in the early 1900's, two out of every three potential recruits to the regiments were turned away as medically unfit to serve. Sir Joshua Ramkin is on record as describing the Ankh-Morporkian soldier of the day as fourteen pounds underweight, only in possession of half his own teeth, and stunted to five feet five or six because of bad diet and upbringing. He compared their physical prowess _most_ unfavourably to that of hardy Zlobenian kulaks, Boor farmers used to a life in the open air, the Überwaldean _sturmschützen_, and Zulu warriors – all races we had wars with in that time. **(1)**

"And look at our people today, a hundred years on. Have we really progressed since then? On behalf of the A.M.M.A., I am in full support of Sir Samuel's initiative, which as a doctor I can commend as not coming soon enough. Thank you."

Dr Lawn stood back.

In the dead silence, Lord Omnius' grating mutter of "Absolute poppycock!" was the only sound heard amongst nearly seventy influential people, most of whom were silently digesting what they'd just heard.

"Is it, my Lord?" Mossy Lawn said, softly. "Then I invite you to do what the Duke of Ankh has done. Go out and survey the properties you own. _See for yourself_."

"Break the habit of a lifetime, Basil!" Vimes murmured, quietly pleased with the course of events.

Vetinari nodded.

"Thank you for that comprehensive summation, Doctor Lawn. I look forward to seeing the expanded research as and when it becomes available. No doubt a modicum of City finance may be available to support your essential work in Public Health. I shall review the taxation situation to see from whence such monies may be obtained. Make a note, please, Drumknott. Now is my economics advisor present? Capital. Professor Turvy, please enlighten us all with the results of your own recent researches and the simulations you ran through your ingenious thinking machine."

Hubert Turvy had been made a honorary Professor the moment the University had seen the advantages of the Glooper machine. Vimes knew that Professor Stibbons had been excitedly conferring with him about how the City's two thinking machines might be connected together for the benefit of both: Stibbons had likened it to a _fishingnet _sort of arrangement, trawling the Multiverse for information and new scientific frontiers to annex.

Turvy, a plump terminal twitcher with a faraway but essentially amiable face, and a dandelion shock of red hair, stepped forward nervously and said "Er…".

Vetinari smiled reassuringly at him.

"Everyone would like to hear about your projection of Sir Samuel's plans and their effect on the life of the city, Hubert. I'm sure you wouldn't want to disappoint them."

"My lord." Turvy said. "I set the Glooper up with the initial parameters of Sir Samuel's propositions overlaid on the basic economic model of the City at present, and ran them through a full seven-year cycle to obtain a short-term, long-term and median picture. In Flask Forty-Three, the accumulated wealth of the Ramkin family drops by a fairly insignificant fraction. But that releases, along Pipe Fifty-Seven, a substantial amount of capital which is used as investment to regenerate the City. As this is a private act of philanthropy, it happens at nil cost to the Exchequer, therefore taxation levels remain stable and there is no detrimental knock-on effect to the flow of money around the city – that's conduit twenty-nine, by the way - and the cash thus released finds its way largely to the Builders' Guild – Reservoir One Hundred and Ten – who duly prosper. However, Bottleneck Ninety-Six will restrict the regeneration of the City until it is eliminated, in no sooner than two years' time, by an influx of newly trained and skilled building workers. This bottleneck is the necessary expansion of the relevant Guild Training Schools and the minimum time it will take to make a skilled builder or other artisan from an apprentice recruited today. Until then, there will be more work than there are skilled workers, hence constriction. However, Conduit One Hundred and Thirteen…"

"I think we can safely dispense with the numbers, professor. Just summate" Vetinari requested.

"However, once the channel is opened, it guarantees a supply of trained and skilled labour for the city in perpetuity. This has knock-on effects in that unskilled young men who might formerly have drifted into a life of crime and disorder now have skills, training, and careers. They are paid wages which add to the money supply circulating in the city, and from which, of course, the Exchequer levvies basic taxation which adds to the City's finances. Therefore the crime rate drops. Not massively, but enough for the effect to be measurable. Meanwhile, Sir Samuel's propositions for the rented housing he controls have direct beneficial results elsewhere, at first marginally, and then incrementally as the reforms gather pace.

"The young men coming out of vocational training discover clean and well-maintained affordable housing they can rent, houses worth bringing a wife to and raising children in. The incidence of lung and bronchial disease drops dramatically in the Duke's housing stock, whilst remaining steady in other landlords' properties. Infant mortality rates drop for those lucky enough to rent a Vimes-Ramkin property. People with economic stability and safe places to live can plan for their future more effectively. The rate of savings in the Royal Bank accelerates, this allowing the Bank more lending power. With guaranteed steady work – an effect of the Undertaking – take-home pay increases for the majority.

"As people get healthier, forward-looking employers will see that they can then produce as much work in a ten, or even an eight-hour, shift, as they used to in twelve or fourteen. In a healthy economy, this cut in working hours will be matched with higher pay, as all goods produced will find a market. The more forward-thinking employers will realise this, and the others _(here Turvy looked at Mr Catterail, of the Ankh-Morpork Confederation of Industry)_ will be forced to follow suit or lose workers – who in a time of full employment will migrate to the best-paid available work. With more spare time to relax, the life of the city becomes more bearable and more affluent, with more spare income at the lower social levels. As we have seen, the Ramkin family fortune dwindles, but only marginally. With a proposition toactually lower, as opposed to continually raising, rents, the Duke of Ankh's income might drop to six and a half, or maybe even six, million dollars a year, but will stabilise eventually at no lower than five million."

Here, there were mutters of "Pauper!" and "Poor Vimes. _However_ will he manage?" and "Brought it on himself. Idiot." Vimes grinned. This was a Good Day.

"The incomes of the other big property-owners will also fall in much the same proportions. My analysis sees them being forced, no later than six years from now, to go down the same road as Sir Samuel, as new tenants will of course seek to rent from the landlord who offers them the best deal. If Sir Samuel builds the new model housing estate in New Ankh that he is said to be contemplating, then that adds to the housing stock available and straight away offers scope for tenants of other Lords to seek to switch, thus putting pressure on them straight away. Overall, my lord, I see this plan as complementary to the Undertaking and being of potentially great benefit to the City. Thank you."

Vetinari nodded.

"Thank you, professor. Now as this is a matter of great significance and importance and should be fully debated, I propose to open the discussion to the floor and solicit the opinions of all Guilds and city advisors present. We shall, I think, also take an informal vote, for my guidance. Who would care to open the debate? Shall we start at "A" and move alphabetically? Very well, then I see Mr Frostrip is bursting to express himself."

The President of the Accountants' Guild thrust an accusing finger at Vimes.

"My Lord, this is intolerable!" he barked. Vetinari sighed.

"Goodness me, intolerability seems to be rampant here today. If it were a disease, and Doctor Lawn would be able to advise me, then it must be the case that Sir Samuel is a carrier. He does rather seem to bring it out in other people wherever he goes. But do persist."

"He threatened to arrest me!" Frostrip indignantly declared. Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"All I was doing, my Lord, was advising His Grace on how he could _minimise _his tax liability. Unfortunately, His Grace has the rather novel and fallacious idea that as he earns more than anyone else in the City, he should consequently pay more tax!"

"I don't _earn _seven million dollars a year. I _get_ seven million a year. A wealth of difference!" Vimes corrected him.

"A wealth, certainly" Vetinari commented. "Do go on."

"I was trying, as is my duty to the city's richest men, to disabuse His Grace of the naïve and ridiculous idea that he should pay tax. All I was doing was advising him of the financial advantages of transferring money to an offshore banking trust in Leshp or Djelibeybi, and he threatened to arrest me for inciting tax evasion!"

"Leshp? It's so far offshore it's underwater! And anyway, I paid my city taxes for thirty-odd years when I was a Watchman on twenty or thirty dollars a month. Like a million other people do, who haven't a choice or bent accountants advising them. I don't see why it should change now I'm a bloody Duke!"

"Djelibeybi. Offshore banking trusts. Oh yes. Drumknott, at some point advise the Djelibeybian Ambassador he's got an appointment to see me, would you? Have Mr Creaser sit in. Sir Samuel, you _must_ know by now that tax evasion is the very _raison d'etre_ of the Accountants' Guild, just as inhumation is that of the Assassins' Guilds and, indeed, theft is that of the Thieves' Guild? Thank you. Do continue, Mr Frostrip!"

"His Grace could not be reasoned out of this hair-shirt mentality, which makes my job as his accountant well-nigh impossible. And now he wants to cut my members out of the rent-gathering process, thus imperilling jobs!"

"No, Mr Frostrip. There will still be a place for a skilled Accountant, who will audit the books once every year to ensure all is well and no _skimming_ is going on. And there will be books kept. Accurate ones. And only _one_ set, not one you show the taxman and one kept locked away with the _real_ figures in. I want complete transparent _accountability_ here, and it starts at the bottom, Mr Frostrip. All my tenants will receive an itemised rent book which will be kept up to date by my rent collectors. The _new_ rent collectors. These will be retired Watchmen who will appreciate a light job walking the old beats, with no risk of being attacked or shot at, and performing a socially valuable function. They will each be escorted by a golem, courtesy of Miss Dearheart, who will carry the money and act as protection. Men I can trust, alongside Golems who can always be trusted, who will then return the money to a book-keeper. He will tally the accounts and pay it directly into a dedicated account at the Royal Bank. No need for an accountant, it's basic book-keeping! One of your members once a year to perform an audit. Simple, easy, rent collection with the fat stripped out. " _And old coppers can report back to me on anything they see that the Watch needs to know about. And while my Watchmen might be a little deaf and slow right now in responding to a report that a rent-collector's been turned over and robbed, they'll be there in seconds for one of their own. _

"That sounds reasonable and prudent, Sir Samuel. I will take that as an objection, Mr Frostrip? And your comments about offshore banking have been duly noted. _Most_ informative. You have nothing more to add? Moving on. The Guild of Artists, if you please."

She was in her middle thirties, with short-cut untidy black hair, a face set in a permanent sulk, buxom, and could be described as attractive from certain well-chosen angles. She wore dungarees, stained and adorned with multicolour paint streaks and splashes. Vimes noted that either her ears seemed to have been subjected to serious violence, or else an ear-piercing operation had gone horribly, horribly, wrong.

She scowled at Vetinari.

"Ah, Ms Pouter. Always a delightful surprise. Do go on".

Daniellerina Pouter of the Guild of Artists **(2) **set her face in its habitual permascowl, and said:-

"I've not a lot to say, really. But I remember renting a grotty bloody attic with a skylight that some reactionary fascist bastard of a landlord advertised as a _studio, _and paying through the nose to the greedy grasping philistine scumbag for it, until I made it big and I could afford to buy my own studio. So I'm all for that uniformed Fascist over there when it comes to rent and housing!"

"Come now, ms Pouter" Vetinari said, cheerfully. "Surely it's traditional for young artists to suffer for their art and starve in a garret? It's practically written into your Guild charter!"

"As you know, I'm not _traditional_!" she scowled. "And as for suffering for my art, is it three or four times now you've had me nailed to things by the ear?"

"Yes, but you've always been able to sell them as _modern art_ after wrenching your ear loose." Vetinari replied. "Which means that indirectly, I've earned you at least $90,000. A fact to bear in mind when reviewing your tax arrangements."

Vetinari chose not to hear the subvocalised _Philistine bastard! _as he turned to Tomjohn Vitoller of the Actors' Guild. The City's most revered actor briefly agreed with Ms Pouter that the idea of creative artistes starving in an garrett is all very well in romantic novels, but it loses some of the lustre when put into practice. Therefore the Actors' Guild was behind sir Samuel. Thank you.

"Mr Silverfish?"

The Alchemists' Guild leader took the floor.

"I have to be against, My Lord. The reason being, at the moment many of my members take their work home with them, and right now one more hole in the wall or the roof is neither here nor there. Rebuild the houses and make us sign a clause agreeing that we can't work at home, and it'd put a proper crimp in the practice of alchemy. Sorry, Sir Samuel."

"Mr Pepsidol-Greatcoat?"

"On behalf of the Guild of Architects, I express full support for Sir Samuel. This idea of building a new model community housing estate on the edge of the City is an exciting proposition. Nothing like this has ever been attempted in living memory. My Guild are also interested in the design possibilities represented by Sir Samuel's acceptance that much of the housing stock in the City has come to the end of its useful life and needs to be replaced completely. This is an unparalleled opportunity to try out new and striking designs suited to the Century of the Fruitbat!"

"I don't want _new_ or _striking_!" Sam Vimes said, hurriedly. "I want tried and proven, where the roof actually stays on in a high wind!"

The chief architect looked affronted, but stood back.

"Lord Downey?"

"My lord, as a private citizen and estate-owner, it need hardly be said that I am against the idea. As Master of the Assassins' Guild, I have to report to you that the Dark Council was fairly evenly split when we discussed the Vimes Proposition. Five votes went in favour, and seven against. I should add that much of the residential property owned by the Guild is allocated as grace-and-favour accommodation to loyal Guild servants, who of course pay a rent, and to retired Assassins and friends of the Guild who have unfortunately fallen on hard times. We see to its upkeep as a matter of _noblesse oblige, _as Mr Gregson will be pleased to testify. Therefore we see no reason for additional statutory obligations to be enforced on us. However, should Sir Samuel be permitted to carry on with his rather ambitious plan, I would like to remind him in this Assembly as to who owns the main Guild buildings, to whom we pay rent, and who would then, by his own stated preference, be responsible for their structural upkeep. I have a list here of perhaps a hundred thousand dollars' worth of repairs and renovations, that Sir Samuel might like to attend to, in his own time."

The room burst into appreciative laughter. Vimes coloured slightly. _You never saw that one coming, Sam, _he reproached himself.

"The freehold and leasehold, certainly." Vimes said, evenly. "I'll be happy for Mr Slant to read both documents and make a ruling."

Vetinari nodded, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"An eminently reasonable suggestion, Lord Downey. Is anyone present from the Archaeologists' Guild?"

The crowd parted, politely and respectfully, as a second Assassin stepped forward. She was dressed all in black, and wore the purple silk teaching sash of the Assassins' Guild School. Slightly disapproving schoolteachers' eyes swept the room and commanded silence.

"Miss Band." Vetinari said. "Welcome to our assembly."

Vimes heard a whisper of _She's an Assassin, She's got to side with Downey. Bound to. _

Alice Band glared at the source of the whisper, and said, loudly and clearly

"If I were here as an Assassin, then I'd be obliged to express loyalty to the Guild and the Master. But please don't let the clothes deceive you. Before I was, ah, _invited_ to join the Assassins' Guild, I was a graduate archaeologist and remain a fully paid-up member of that Guild. At this moment I'm the Archaeologists' Guild representative to this meeting. So my vote will be cast as an Archaeologist, as Lord Downey is perfectly aware. Sir Samuel, may I clear up an issue with you?"

"Go ahead, Alice." Sam respected Alice Band, knowing her to be one of the best of the bunch. Besides, they'd developed a certain tacit agreement over the past few years which both parties honoured scrupulously.

"You're talking about knocking down condemned properties inside the City walls, so as to rebuild from new on the sites. From my point of view, that opens up land which has not been exposed for the best part of two hundred years. This offers an unparalleled opportunity for archaeological digs and investigations into the recent history of this city. Would you be prepared to delay building on any sites you clear for a period of two weeks to a month, to enable archaeologists to dig on those sites? "

Sam nodded; it was a reasonable request.

"I don't see why not." he said. "I'll instruct the builders".

"Then you've got the Archaeologist vote, Sir Samuel. And just between the two of us, your new Air Police were a tiny bit rough with Miriam bint Alzhared the other week."

"The Klatchian girl? The one who hit on the idea of aerial attack on Ramkin Manor?"

Alice shrugged. "She _was_ getting just a little bit overconfident." she said. "But you have to admit an aerial attack on a client has never been tried before, and it had a certain romantic style about it. So of course I told her to go ahead, and get into a position where she could get a clear iconograph of your back, from no further than twenty feet."

Vimes remembered. _Good old Buggy Swires. He warned me that we were wide open from the air and stepped up patrols. That gnome has a sixth sense for trouble. He had the two new pilots run recce over the Assassins' Guild, and the moment they saw the flying carpet take off from Tump House, that Klatchian girl was doomed. _

"New Air Police pilots, Commander?" asked Vetinari.

"Yes, sir. I couldn't deny Swires promotion to Corporal any longer, he was overdue, but he needed some people to Corporal at, if you see what I mean. The two young witches brought their own broomsticks, which is a great saving, so of course I put them through basic training and then into the air."

Broomsticks are more manoevreable than flying carpets, especially one where the pilot is being distracted by a buzzard mounted by a swearing gnome . It hadn't been too difficult for the two witch lance-constables to get either side of the Klatchian student Assassin, grab an arm each, pull her bodily off the carpet, and drop her in the cess-pit from a short height. After Jocasta Wiggs, the Ramkin dunnikin was becoming something of a tradition for over-confident student Assassins sent by Alice Band… _well, I showed the Dwarves that the law goes all the way down. Now I'm demonstrating to the bloody Klatchians that it goes all the way up, too. _

"Alice, you might want to put the word out at the Guild that the airspace over Ramkin Manor is out of bounds. And randomly patrolled."

Alice Band smiled, and nodded.

"But she's learnt the lesson about being overconfident! _And_ she was woefully ill-prepared, as she did not at any point in her planning stop to think there are other people in this City who are capable of flight, nor that they might be actively trying to prevent her completing a contract. Thank you, Sir Samuel".

"And she's also learnt to watch for the witch from the Watch in the sun. An essential dogfighting skill, apparently! And you got the flying carpet back?"

"Yes, it was returned to me tied in a red ribbon with a compliments slip. A nice touch, Sir Samuel!"

"Droll though this is, can we get back on track, please?" Vetinari requested. "The Guild of Artificers, please. Mr Pony?"

__________________________________________________________________________

Sorry, but I've got to pause here - it's getting too long. Discussion continues after the break. Most of the Guilds and their spokespeople are "real" in the canon of TP. Mr Pepsidol-Greatcoat of the Architect's Guild is my character. Think Charles Rennie-Mackintosh on Roundworld. I have assumed Daniellerina Pouter would be vocal in the Artists' Guild.

**(1)** This is true. At the time of the Boer War (1899-1902), the British Army was handicapped by a lack of suitably fit recruits for precisely these reasons. Because of at least a century of neglect of the British working classes by their social betters, this poor quality of human material had knock-on effects into British recruitment for both world wars. By the end of 1944, we'd completely run out of fit and able military recruits, and the British armed forces actually _shrank _in size during the critical last few months of WW2, much to Winston Churchill's mortification.

**(2) **See** _Thud!_** where Ms Pouter is nailed to things as Vetinari's studied critique of modern art. She is, of course, based on Roundworld enfant terrible and conceptual artiste Tracey Emin, as per TP's fairly clear hint in **_Thud!._**


	7. Butchers, Bakers, and Candlestick Maker

_**It's finally here. Enjoy it! **_

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter Seven**_

Vimes had heard that out on the Howondalandian Central Plain, when the various tribes of Red Indians got together for a pow-wow, there was a custom called the _talking stick_, where the chiefs sat together in a circle to debate matters of mutual concern, and only the chief currently holding the stick had the right to speak. The rest would remain quiet and attentive, listen to what the stick-holder had to say, and then the stick would be passed on to the next speaker.

Vimes felt a similar convention was _almost_ beginning to apply here, but needed a little bit more work doing to it. And he rather fancied that there was also such a thing as a _deciding_ stick, that would never, ever, leave the possession of Vetinari. Although the Patrician was genuinely interested in the comments of others, insofar as they revealed something of the mindset and preoccupations of the speaker. And where they were trying _not_ to talk about things they'd prefer Vetinari not to know about, of course. Which could be every bit as illuminating.

Mr Stronginthearm of the Armourers' Guild had asked about where dwarfs fitted in to Vimes' proposed brave new world. As the question came from a human who had asked for his ethnicity to be legally changed to Dwarf, out of mere convenience (people always thought "dwarf-made" was a guarantee of greater craftsmanship, sorry, workmanship, sorry, let's call it _quality_.), it aroused a few sniggers. Mr Stronginthearm had looked out of his big black bushy beard and from under the rim of his horned helmet, in a most reproachful way, and clarified the question.

"My Lord, no houses in this city are purpose-built for Dwarf habitation. When Dwarfs first started coming to this city, they took advantage of the current laissez-faire legislation regarding housing, where so long as a rent based on _human_ occupation was paid, they could do what the hell they liked to the building. We Dwarfs are good with our hands and can turn them to anything, which is why I employ so many. Everyone here must have seen the unofficial redevelopments of rental houses, where a house that formerly had three floors now has five above ground. They are probably the best-kept rental houses, structurally, in the city, as Dwarfs take a pride in where they live and have the skills to keep them in good repair.

"Now on behalf of the Dwarfs, Sir Samuel, I must ask: when you talk about restoring your homes to a fit state to live in, do you propose to hack out the home improvements made by Dwarfs to capitalise on the face that far more shorter people can comfortably live in a space designed for humans? Will your builders be pulling out the new flooring and restoring the houses to their original human standards?"

"Good question, Mr Stronginthearm. Earlier today I saw a house that had been informally adapted for troll habitation. Quite radically so. This gave me pause for concern, as the house didn't look as if it could take that degree of radical DIY!"

A ripple of laughter went around the room. Vimes continued.

"Quite honestly, you've raised an issue I hadn't really considered. But my instinct is that, as we no longer live in a city designed solely for humans, any new building should incorporate purpose-built houses for Dwarfs and Trolls. Perhaps you could ask civic leaders to come to me with propositions and designs I can show to the Guild of Architects? I'd also be happy for Troll civic leaders, and representatives of other minority groups, to come to me with ideas we can incorporate into future house-building. And before you raise the other question – how far _down_ can a Dwarf house go in this City(**1)** – I believe His Lordship has already ruled on that, and this isn't open for discussion."

Stronginthearm nodded. "You've answered my concerns, Sir Samuel. The Armourers are in favour. Better housing means healthier workers means better craft and higher productivity."

Vimes nodded. Mr Pony of the Artificers' Guild stood up, endorsed the argument that better housing meant healthier and more able workers, and added

"And of course, speaking on behalf of the Guild, we're really excited about the innovations Sir Samuel has suggested for the New Estate in New Ankh. I believe it is technically possible not only to pump water to each individual house, but also for that water to have first passed through a purification station, for which plans exist and only a lack of finance has prevented us from experimentation. A city waterworks, my lord, set up to contemplate what has hitherto been thought difficult and impossible – to purify the waters of the Ankh! Sir Samuel has expressed a willingness to provide the capital to enable building to begin. And if this is tied in with the idea advanced by Mr King, of a sewage treatment plant, then fresh water may for the first time be pumped _into_ private homes, whilst waste products are piped _out_ for recycling and cleansing. I welcome the opportunity for my Guild to be at the forefront of such innovative design and building!"

Mr Warburton of the Bakers' Guild asked if the Vimes plan might also cover small businesses, whose premises could also be covered by reasonable light industrial rents.

Vimes replied that the new estate, let's call it Ankh Newtown for now, was going to need its full complement of shops and small businesses. He thought the money set aside to prime the development could well include loans enabling small businesses to set up and flourish, using the best available equipment, the cost of which could be repaid by a small but manageable addition to the rent, payable over several years. As everyone needs bread, Ankh Newtown might well need more than one bakery? And he'd certainly look into the rent situation for all small businesses that currently paid him rent. Perhaps even institute business loans now, for those who needed to update premises and equipment.

Having secured the small business vote, with Vetinari noting the continued non-presence of the Bandits' Guild at these meetings ("they must fear somebody is going to unduly detain their representative"), the Barber-Surgeons gave a qualified "no", on the grounds that enhanced public health would disadvantage their members from earning a decent crust. Vetinari commented that any Guild member worthy of attention as a surgeon had defected over to the Doctors' Guild where a programme of professional re-training was in hand, and many of the dedicated barbers appear to be seeing the benefits of membership of the new Hairdressers' Guild, leaving only a small and progressively elderly rump behind in the old Guild. How many members are left to you now, Mr Todd: Seven? Eight? Ah well, thus roll the wheels of progress. Queen Molly?

The Beggars' Guild leader cackled.

"This is like begging on the grandest scale, my Lord!" she pronounced. It's as if the city itself is a beggar, and it's pan-handling His Grace for a spare few million in change to buy a cup of tea! If you ask me, these changes are things the City is begging for, and His Grace is digging into his purse to give generously. How can _we_ say no to that?"

Vetinari nodded.

"And can anyone spare I a twenty-room mansion and forty thousand dollars? Sir Samuel?"

"Keep on with the sales talk and you might just get it, Molly!"

"The Butchers' Guild? Mr Sock?"

The redfaced lead butcher stepped forward, in his blue-and-white starched apron and straw boater hat of office.

"Sir Samuel, the offer you just made to the Bakers' Guild. As a federation of small businesses ourselves, do we qualify for the same generous offers?"

"Ankh-Newtown needs _all_ the usual run of small businesses and shops if it's to thrive, Mr Sock" Vimes reassured him. "Mr Warburton, you, _and_ Mr Chandler the candlestick maker!" Mr Chandler (Candlestick Makers and Ship's Outfitters Guild) beamed warmly. Sock assured Vimes of the butchers' vote.

Mr Willikins coughed discreetly and took the floor.

"On behalf of the Guild of Butlers and Senior Domestic Staff" he said, "I should like to vouchsafe an opinion which may be worthy of perusal here. All the great Households of this City recruit domestic staff from what is commonly referred to as "the lower orders" of society. In domestic service, the pay is generally low and the hours are generally very long. Job satisfaction is gained by aligning your personal loyalties with the family name and reputation for whom you are in service. If, for instance, the Rust household is thriving, all domestic employees of Lord Rust feel a certain pride in that, and consider it gives them occasion to look down upon the domestic servants of the other households. This is actively encouraged because it builds, ah, _team spirit_, in the vernacular, and all staff become more keenly aware of their importance in the scheme of things. I myself take great pride in all aspects of running and managing the full brigade of domestic servants in the Ramkin household. My concern is that for this to work as it should, it requires a clearly visible stratification between social classes. It also requires a certain level of poverty, both actual and in terms of poverty of aspirations, for young people just starting out in careers to consider domestic service."

Willikins paused.

"We promise that although the actual pay is low in terms of cash renumeration, any young person taken on in the Ramkin household receives a bed of their own, shoes to wear, three full meals a day, washing and personal hygiene facilities, and clothing they can call their own. My Lords, you would be _surprised_ what an attraction these things are to domestic service, as so many of our newcomers to service have seen few, or even _none_ of these things before.

"My great concern is that if his Grace is pursuing a course of events where living standards rise and these things become standard for young people in the City, then those fringe benefits of signing up to domestic service will become irrelevant, and will no longer exert a draw to young people contemplating the world of work. We will then struggle to obtain housemaids, bootboys, scullery hands, footmen, and so on, if the previously accepted perks are no longer remarkable or rare, and all we have to offer is hard work and low pay. In fact, if factory work becomes better paid and offers shorter hours as a result of these changes, we will indeed _struggle_ to recruit and retain domestic staff. My Lords, you may be forced to pay more for servants.

"Therefore, with the greatest of respect to Sir Samuel, the vote of the Butlers and Senior Domestics Guild goes _against_ his proposition. Thank you for forebearing to listen to me."

Willikins stood back Vimes exhaled a deep breath. _Better sit down with Willikins sometime and discuss staff pay and conditions. Charity begins at home, after all. No, not charity, they work bloody damn hard for what they actually get. Maybe even institute grace-and-favour accommodation for retired staff? A kind of pension plan for loyal service?_

"Thank you, Mr Willikins" said Vetinari. "Mr Gabriel of the Carters and Drovers' Guild?"

The Drovers, Chefs and Cooks, and Clockmakers passed swiftly by, with two more "yes" votes and a "no" from the Chefs, the fiery chef Gaylord Rothsprey having on several occasions to be warned about his language. With all the "-ing"'s extracted, together with the f-word, the c-word, the k-word, the p-word and both of the s-words, his objections were surprisingly similar to Willikins: if we can only offer low pay, hard work and infrequent job satisfaction, this city's going to go –ing _hungry_, big boy. **(2)**

"_Big Boy_", mr Rothsprey?"queried Vetinari, from under a raised eyebrow.

The City's temperamental chef, who was known to hail from a small nation north of Llamedos and east of Hergen, realised he'd gone too far.

"That is, _My Lord_" he corrected himself, hastily. (Adding "F***!", sotto voce.)

"Well, at least we're thankful it wasn't Marco Peter Bianco, who I'm reliably told _really _lets himself down with swearing." Vetinari mused, cheerfully. "And speaking of well-salted and seasoned language, High Priest Ridcully, for the Council of Churches, Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks?"

The crowd parted for the robed, magnificent, and larger-than-life Hughnon Ridcully. His robed and mitred presence commanded silence. He nodded.

"Y'know, there are at least three thousand named Gods on the Disc" he began, conversationally. "And where people care enough to give a God a name, then you may be sure they'll start a religion around that God. So that means we have the best part of three thousand religions. Tryin' to get any two of 'em to agree on a policy or to make an ecumenical decision is like herdin' cats. Havin' said that, there are one or two spots of common theology that practically all those religions agree on. And one of those basic principles of religion is the maxim _The poor ye shall always have with ye. "_

Ridcully scowled his way around the room so that the point sank in.

"The poor ye shall always have with ye." he repeated. "It's universal. It's eternal. It's a basic truth. Now let me expand on this theme. I'll spare you the deep theology – to be perfectly honest, some of me young theologians go so far over my head they might as well be lecturin' the Gods themselves – and I'll keep the sermon short.

"What does this statement mean and what do we do about it? It's certainly not an argument for givin' up and doin' nothing, as some of you might believe."

His eyes took in Rust, Venturi and Selachii for a second or two. He nodded.

"You can see it as a _challenge_" Ridcully repeated. "Another of the great religious principles is _charity_. If life makes you fortunate and comfortably off, you share what you can and spread it around a bit. Will of the Gods and all that. Parable of the Good Betrekian, sort of thing. Fella finds somebody lyin' at the side of the road who's been worked over by the Thieves' Guild. You don't just leave him lyin' there, you see him to a place of safety and get his injuries tended to."

_Yes, _Vimes thought_. Sounds like "Basher" Norris of the Thieves' Guild all over, it's his MMO. You stop and bend over somebody in _**this**_ city who's apparently lying there injured, and while he's playing dead, his two mates rush you from behind and belt you over the head before turning your pockets out. It might work in Betrek, but the Prophet Jeribilda wouldn't have lasted five minutes in Ankh-Morpork before becoming an embittered misanthrope wishing the human race to Hell. And the time Basher watched a "Good Betrekian" who actually _**did**_ get a genuine mugging victim to the Lady Sybil, then reasoned that to get him into hospital he must have money, waited for him to come out, and did him over on the hospital steps… _

"Now, you may ask where I'm goin' with this, and from the look on his face, I can see that if Sir Samuel ever founds a religion for Watchmen, it's going to be a damn' cynical one. My point is that the poor are always going to be there. Fact of life. Some people make it, many people don't. But that don't mean we turn our faces away and do nothing. The parable of the Good Betrekian tells us we are actually bloody-well-expected to _do _something about it. _From those who are given more, more is expected. _Those with most to give should in their turn give most to _relieve_ the condition of the poor. The poor may always be with us, but there's noithing to prevent us from making 'em a bit _less_ poor! Which means as a priest, I have to commend Sir Samuel's ideas to the very hilt. He may not have a religion as such, but he's certainly livin' up to the expectations of one! "

Vetinari nodded.

"So the Churches are fully behind the principle of giving charity and believe it to be a very good idea. Thank you, Drumknott."

"Indisputably, my Lord!" Ridcully said.

"The Church of Blind Io, Dioscesan See of Ankh-Morpork. Income from property investments and land holdings, estimated at fourteen million dollars annually. Owing to a regrettable decision made by a predecessor of mine as Patrician, you classify as a "charitable trust" for taxation purposes and therefore only pay very minimal tax at the margins. Take a note of that, please, Drumknott.

"Amount of charity actually dispensed, measurable in tangible quantitative units such as dollars and pence…. Oh yes, here it is, a long way behind _Robing Allowance for Chief Priest – forty thousand dollars. _I see _Charitable payments for poor relief – seventeen thousand dollars. "_

Vetinari steepled his fingers.

"I see you really _are_ completely behind the principle of charitable giving, so long as it's other people who are doing the giving. Especially their giving to the Church, as I see from these figures concerning income from collection plates, bequests, and tithes. Still, we can discuss this later when we get round to reviewing the taxation situation. I will take your sermon as a vote in Sir Samuel's favour, entirely in keeping with your theology that the Lord Io loves a cheerful giver, so long as it isn't His church doing the giving? Thank you, Chief Priest. _Most _enlightening, and I'm sure our glasses appreciated a little polish there, so that we all came to see less darkly."

Vetinari smiled.

Before we move to the Guild of Confectioners and Mr Bournville-Cadbury, I have to say it's sad to hear that the Omnian Salvation Army is marching to empty streets in this city. I find it surprising that the poor and homeless actually prefer to _forego _a hearty soup-and-bread meal and choose to remain hungry, several streets or even in extreme cases a whole district of the City away, nor do they choose to take shelter in the Army's new Citadel** (3)** for the night. I really can't think _why_. As an improving homily that accompanies the repast, not to mention an ample supply of thought-provoking pamphlets and monograms on the nature of the God Om, should serve as a means for the poor to express due and suitably humble thanks for having their hunger lifted. Some people, perhaps, just cannot be Saved." **(4)**

Vetinari looked quiet and reflective for a moment.

"The Guild of Confectioners, please? Ah, Mr Bournville-Cadbury."**(5)**

The City's leading manufacturer of sweetmeats and chocolate-ish produce stood, briefly, and stated that the Guild already, ah, ran its own model accommodation for its factory workers and kept it in acceptable repair, thank you very much. Therefore it was against the dead hand of regulation on the housing market, and against any additional burdens making it impossible to offer such a jolly good perk to its workforce.

"What, a nice little arrangement that guarantees three-quarters of what you pay out in wages comes back to you as rents? " Vimes found himself saying. "And with the added bonus that if you ever have to sack an employee, say for joining or starting a union, they lose their house too, along with all their family. Nice way of keeping the workforce docile _and_ presenting it as a nice liberal forward-looking benevolent management practice, which is always good for PR!" **(6)**

The City's leading almost-chocolatier glared at Vimes.

"Somebody gave Sybil a box of your Whizzo Quality Assortment" **(7)** Vimes added. "She ate one and was sick for a week. Have you thought of supplying the Assassins? Mr Mericet would hand in his stiletto!"

Vetinari hurriedly intervened.

"So, another "no", then, Mr Bourneville-Cadbury? Thank you. Incidentally, Mr Wee Mad Arthur was here earlier this week dealing with a feral rat problem. He _swears_ by the Whizzo Assortment for attracting feral rats. And of course, my trained rats are intelligent enough and possibly finicky enough to avoid them. But they've _always_ been choosy eaters, sorry to say."

And so the meeting progressed.

* * *

**(1) **_**Not very **_had been Vetinari's ruling. He had added "I know what Dwarf Lore says on this, namely that the rights on land you own go all the way down to the other side of the Disc, but you do _not_ happen to be in a Dwarf city ruled by Low King Rhys. It's ruled by _me_. I will issue a more detailed decree later, but as guidance, you may have no more than three cellars and sub-cellars. Less, if you live above a strategically valuable area of the Sub-City, which remains City property."

**(2) **And thus Gordon Ramsey's Discworld doppelganger makes his appearance.

**(3) On Roundworld, **the Savation Army operates its twin purposes of religious conversion and poor relief from church-cum-meeting halls called _**Citadels. **_On the Discworld, of course, the Omnian Church is led and directed from the _Citadel._ I see the old Omnian Divine Legion, formerly in the days of Brutha and Vorbis a fearsome martial arm of the Church, mutating into something like the Salvation Army and operating out of its Citadels in Ankh-Morpork and other cities: the old weapons of sword and spear long since laid aside, but no less terrifying in a modern, trying-to-be-benevolent, manifestation.

**(4) George Orwell, **in his book_**Down and Out in London and Paris**_**, **wrote about the demeaning and humiliating process by which the Salvation Army, and other faith-based alternatives to a Welfare State, saw their job of poor relief as one of providing moralizing sermons which the homeless and hungry had to endure, often for up to an hour, before minimal food relief appeared . Orwell asked if the middle and upper classes ever fell on similar hard times, would _they _be subjected to patronising attempts at religious conversion, before any food appeared on the table.

As Great Britain and the USA move more towards a welfare model where "faith-based providers" are encouraged to take over formerly State and secular welfare provision, it's worthwhile remembering what happened in the 1920's and 1930's when Britain had its faith-based providers filling in the gaps where the State could not or would not accept the responsibility...

**(5) Bourneville-Cadbury: **Cadbury is the trade name of a major "chocolate" makers in Great Britain. They operate from the Birmingham suburb of Bourneville. In practice, they have a lot in common with the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Confectioners, of whom it is said (in _**Thief of Time**_):-

"In its press release, the Guild explains that Ankh-Morpork people are hearty no-nonsense folk who simply do not want "chocolate" which is stuffed with a potentially poisonous 70% cocoa liquor. They are certainly not like effete la-di-dah foreigners who want real cream stuffed into everything.

"In fact, they actually prefer chocolate made from (_a glass and a half of?)_milk, sugar, suet, hooves, lips, miscellaneous squeezings, rat droppings, plaster, flies, tallow, bits of tree, hair, lint, spiders, and powdered cocoa husks. (ingredients listed in order of quantity).

"According to the food standards of the great chocolate producing centres in Quirm and Borogravia, Ankh-Morpork chocolate is formally classed as "cheese" and only just escapes being labelled as "tile grout" on grounds of colour.

Ankh-Morpork chocolate is to real chocolate what a C.M.O.T. Dibbler sausage is to meat." (_quotes_ c_/o the L-Space wiki_) And British chocolate is to European chocolate… well, cheese or tile grout. American chocolate, where food law permits even less real cocoa butter to be used, is even worse. Now Mr Bourneville-Cadbury's Guild deputy is a Mr Hershey…

**(6) Really true. **Many British industrialists did this in the nineteenth century – establishing "industrial villages" where the factory and the workers' housing were adjacent. Sometimes for philanthropic reasons, as with the Quaker Rowntree family (chocolate and sweet makers, incidentally) , but with some nice little fringe benefits for unscrupulous industrialists. They also owned the pubs and shops too, so virtually all the wages paid out came back to the factory owner…

**(7) **A classic** Monty Python **sketch, in which a diligent policeman finds ever-more improbable and disgusting ingredients in a box of chocolates, such as **Cockroach Cluster, Lark's Vomit, **and** Crunchy Frog. **Possibly mined from the same satirical vein in which Terry Pratchett found his remarks about Ankh-Morpork chocolate.

* * *

Back soon with more!


	8. Soothing the savage Maccalariat

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter Eight - well, this is the one you all wanted! **_

Vimes was, at least temporarily, back doing what he loved best, apart from tweaking the noses of the rich, the arrogant, and the heedlessly powerful.

Several more Guilds had come and gone to give their vote on the Vimes New Deal, and the Patrician, after hearing out their opinions, had suggested a recess for the rest of the day, as there were clearly quite a lot of opinions to get through. Vetinari had made the barbed comment that it might allow the remaining Guilds time to think out their positions more carefully and coherently, and the meeting had ended, for now.

Sitting in his office at the Yard, Sam Vimes was cheerful and optimistic about the way it had gone so far. He had thrown a rather large stone into the dark murky waters of Ankh-Morpork, and it had certainly landed with a splash, soaking a lot of the usual suspects in mud, pond-weeds and effluent that were largely of their own making.

Perfect. Vimes liked a perfect day. There generally weren't enough of them.

_Oh, and you may be sure that I intend to speak to you when all this is over, Sir Samuel. Make a note, Drumknott, if you would be so kind._

Ah well. He'd deal with that when it happened. There were still quite a few Guilds yet to make their positions known, and no doubt Vetinari had a sting in the tail for him. He'd already been stung, to under-write yet another legitimate demand the Assassins' Guild was about to make of its landlord, "the man ultimately responsible for keeping the property in good repair".

Vimes vented a deep philosophical sigh. His unwanted tenants on Filigree Street were _good_ at getting money out of him.

A year or two ago, they'd bought out the rights to build on a formerly disused factory site on Short Street, a short walk away from the Guild. That bloody zombie Slant had traced back ultimate ownership of the land to Lady Sybil Ramkin, meaning that Vimes had a deciding say in who built on it and what it was used for. Both parties, Vimes and the Assassins, had not been hugely enthusiastic that the landlord-tenant relationship still applied here. And Vimes, initially, had not been crazy that the Guild wanted to build a large and custom-designed Animal Management Unit here, to replace the limited and increasingly too-small-for-the-purpose breeding and research facilities at the Guild itself.

Vimes had grimaced about the idea of what amounted to a factory, churning out poisonous animals, insects and other dangerous creatures to serve the Guild's twisted needs. But Downey had invited Lady Sybil and himself to a High Dinner at the Guild, and had deliberately not played fair by sitting Sybil down next to that bloody Howondalandian woman, the one with the warped interest in dangerous animals**(1)**, who had spent the meal firing Sybil's imagination with all the great things she intended to do with her research and teaching faculty. And the Guild had also enlisted that bloody lethal killer florist, hadn't it, and given her the title of Botany Mistress?**(****2) **

And they'd sat either side of Sybil, building her up and firing her imagination, whilst Downey had been emphasising to him the _scholastic_ and _educational_ advantages the new building would add to the Guild. ("Surely you cannot object to the study and dissemination of knowledge of the natural sciences, Sir Samuel? Harnessed to the broader education of our young people**(3) **and to the dispassionate spread of scientific knowledge".)

Vimes, reasoning that at least breeding scorpions and poisonous snakes might thin out their numbers a bit if any student Assassins got _over-confident_ with them, had eventually, grumpily, acceded. At Sybil's prompting, he had even gifted thirty thousand dollars towards the cost of the building and the specialist equipment it would need. (and that had _hurt_, but he couldn't disappoint Sybil, a woman born to love animals. He wasn't made for that. And it was her money, damn it. He just looked after it for her.)

"Thank you, Sir Samuel." Lord Downey had said, smoothly, with the smile of one who knows he's got one over on an old enemy. "I shall ask the Dark Council to consider calling the new School building the Sir Samuel Vimes Block For Animal Management. Or perhaps not." he had hastily added, sensing he was pushing it too far.

Ah well. A couple of years on, he had to accept the Assassin-managed Animal Management Unit was secure against internal and external leakage and was tightly and efficiently run. And turning an overall profit for the Guild, what with contracts and sales and leases to other Guilds wanting to share the facilities. The Thieves' Guild School and the Institute of Technology now taught natural science to their pupils: they rented classroom and laboratory time and use of the Unit from the Assassins. Vimes was mildly annoyed he hadn't made that thirty thou into a loan rather than, at Sybil's insistence, a gift.

But as she'd said later, it all helped for when Young Sam was of an age for big school. All Ramkin oldest sons go to the Assassins' School, and I _don't_ want the fact that you and Donald don't see eye to eye to go against their accepting him.

It hadn't been all bad; as with his experience with the Lady Sybil Free Hospital, Vimes had had his eyes opened to the possibilities of how much value a relatively small amount of money invested in the right way could add to the City. From small beginnings, the Vimes-Ramkin funded Lady Sybil had become a large hospital, adding departments of Psychiatry, Tropical Diseases, Epidemiology, Social Diseases, Antisocial Diseases, Downright Frankly Embarrassing Diseases, and teaching schools for both doctors and nurses. Not bad for what had started out as a simple Casualty Department and a couple of general wards.

No, this business of intelligent philanthropy could have something to commend it. And up to three million was small change, given the sheer mind-buggering size of the Ramkin family fortune…

There was a knock on the door.

"Come on in, Carrot" Vimes called. "Anything new?"

"Quiet morning, sir. Just traffic violations and a couple of suicides."

"Where's the Maccalariat woman right now?"

Vimes indicated a stack of paperwork on the desk, every item of which carried a query slip written in her clear and forceful copperplate. Some of them didn't even have a single exclamation mark.

"She's got as far as filing the J's, sir" said Carrot.

"Good, good. " Vimes said, inwardly thinking _Ten letters of the alphabet down and sixteen to go, then._

A horrible thought struck him.

_Oh Gods. She's alphanumeric, isn't she? Pessimal explained that to me. That means you can add ten more classes of file, grouped by number from zero to nine._

"She estimates she has another three weeks left on organising our filing, sir."

Vimes saw a look of pain pass over his captain's normally cheerful face. He sympathised. It must have mirrored the one on his own.

"_Four_, she said, if you persist in ignoring the query slips she keeps putting on your desk and which you wilfully persist in doing nothing about. Her words, sir."

Vimes sighed. Things like this could drive a man back to drink.

"Anything else, captain?"

"Well, sir, the lads are all talking about your idea of a New Deal. As you know, some of them live in here at the Yard, but there's a limit to the number we can take. There was talk about a delegation coming to see you about setting up a Watch barracks. With married quarters for suitably qualified candidates."

Vimes nodded. "That's actually quite a good idea. Watchmen don't get paid very much. So if charity begins at home, let's look at subsidised housing, good quality, low rents. It'd be a good recruitment hook."

"Thought you'd see it that way, sir. They're all following what's been said at the Palace with interest. His Lordship gave the Times full permission to print a report. It should be in the evening edition. Oh, and…."

"Yes, Carrot?"

"Intelligence has reached us that a delegation of Lords went to see Lord Downey at the Assassins' Guild. They're pressing for the contract on you to be re-activated as Lords Rust, Eorle, Omnius, Selachii and Venturi all consider you to be a nuisance and a threat to established good order. Apparently they've scraped together an extra half-million to go on the completion fee."

"So I'm now worth a million and a half dollars dead?"

"Apparently so, sir. But Downey apparently did stress that there was difficulty in getting his people to take up the contract. No sane Assassin would touch it with somebody else's ten-foot bargepole, apparently."

"Which only leaves the insane ones. Do we have files on them?"

"Assassins tend to be very sane people, sir. The last _really _lunatic one was Teatime, and he disappeared a few Hogswatches ago. They're good at calculating odds, and the consensus seems to be that if you were hard to kill at a million, you'll not be any easier at one and a half."

Vimes nodded again. Suddenly he felt _alive._ It was a nice feeling. He grinned.

"So there's no interest _at all_?"

Carrot coughed.

"Miss Sanderson-Reeves was approached. You know, the poisoner. The Marriage Guidance Counsellor, as was. Apparently she refused outright and said she knows her limits, and she'd rather _not_ be drawn to your attention, thank you very much. Miss Band said you're far too useful to her alive, as somebody to send her pupils to when they get over-confident, so she may well try to covertly bodyguard you, if anything. And a lot of the others apparently found very good reasons to be doing other things. So no, I don't think the Assassins are going to trouble you unduly, sir."

Vimes grinned.

"Bring 'em on, Captain!"

It was a look and attitude Carrot knew well.

"I take it you're kicking some righteous buttock, sir?"

"_Damn right!"_ agreed Vimes.

Vimes busied himself in routine police work for the rest of the day, grounding himself by forcing himself to tackle Miss Maccalarriat's lengthy list of spelling, punctuation, and grammatical queries. He called Sergeant Pessimal in to help him on some of the trickier ones, and the afternoon and early evening passed quickly.

"May I make some rather large expense claims sir?" Pessimal had asked him.

"As long as you spent your own money on Watch-related business, there shouldn't be a problem, A.E. But then, you know that!"

" I divined that the rest of the Watch would be happier if Miss Maccalariat ate elsewhere than in the staff canteen, sir." Pessimal said.

"So I have taken the liberty of escorting her out for lunch. But here on the Isle of Gods, it isn't exactly inexpensive, even for a light lunch."

Vimes considered for a moment. Only Pessimal would actively seek out a Maccalariat as a congenial lunch companion. So he was being asked to foot the bill for some pleasant almost-romantic lunches in places like the Opera House Brasserie. But on the other hand, it benefited the Watch if Maccalariat weren't cramping their style over lunch...

"Get me the invoices and I'll pay in full, A.E. Without any questions. Thank you."

Sybil, who had her own channels of communication, had been full of praise and adoration for him that evening, and Vimes had enjoyed an uncharacteristically early night.

He was all the fresher, therefore, for a renewal of hostilities the next morning at the City Council Meeting.

Again the room was packed, and again Sacharissa Cripslock and William deWorde had contrived excuses to attend.

"Thank you all for attending, ladies and gentlemen" said Vetinari, amiably. "As you know this is a continuation of yesterday's exercise in eliciting Guild opinion on the Duke of Ankh's "New Deal" for the city, or at least , at the moment, for those parts of the City that he owns. I believe we got as far as…"

Drumknott passed a list to the Patrician.

" Mr Bournville-Cadbury, of the Guild of Choclatieres. I believe we may now proceed to the Guild of Clowns, Fools, Joculators, Buffoons, Minstrels and…. _Mime-Artists."_

A very slight expression of distaste passed over the Patrician's face.

"Provided you do not attempt to _mime_ your reply, I apologise for the oversight. Doctor Whiteface?"

"Thank you, my Lord. I'm sure you already know that our principal school of Mime studies has been removed to La Sorbomme, well out of your jurisdiction, so that the great Quirmian art may flourish in its homeland where many would say it belongs. Only a small department remains in this city, so as to provide an additional course module for Fools and Clowns."

"Indeed, Doctor!" Vetinari said, drily "And your opinions on the Duke's proposition?"

The mask of almost pure white make-up under the absurdly tiny conical hat turned to Vimes.

"We are a Guild complete and entire in ourselves." Whiteface said. "We insist that the road to perfection of our Craft is a hard one and there may be no soft beds nor easy paths. We live in near-monastic seclusion and even our graduates, by force of habit, may elect to sleep on hard floors and not soft divans. We remain confident of ongoing recruitment of those who would seek an ascetic path with scarce comforts. Therefore what happens in the outer world among those whose paths do not normally cross ours is of little interest. If it proves to mark us still more strongly as those who have forsworn the easy and the soft route, then by all means let the outer world have the comforts the Duke is planning to give it. We will, of our own free will as Clowns and Fools, renounce them. Thank you. " Whiteface sat down.

"The… Guild of C.M.O.T. Dibblers?"

AnkhMorpork's most famous failed entrepreneur stepped forward and blinked in the limelight.

"Sir, what can I say? Mr Vimes is offering a far better deal than anything we've ever had before. I'm nothing if I don't go chasing the better deal, and even try haggling him down for a better one still. Mr Vimes, would you consider re-opening the old public baths, the free ones? It'll save me money on a shave every day…"

"You got it, Dibbler!"

"You've got my vote, Mr Vimes! And that's cutting me own throat, I should have held out for more!"

"The Guild of Ecdysiasts, Nautchers, Cancanieres and Exponents of Exotic Dance?"

Miss Dixie "Va-Va!" Boom sashayed forward, along with Edward the snake twined about her. Even at nearly seventy, there were echoes of the sensational act that had once packed places of public performance.

"_Well, hello, boys!" _she breathed, throwing a kiss at Vimes, and then a smouldering glance at Vetinari.

"I'll keep it quick" she said. "Sam, my Guild members spend a lot of time not wearing very much in draughty damp places. They don't need to go back home to more draughty damp uncomfortable places. On behalf of my girls and boys…"

"…and _boy_s?" somebody questioned. She gave the direction of the questioner a hard look.

"AND boys! Some work the Blue Cat Club, by arrangement with Mr Harris, and some do the hen night and quaffing girls circuits, as some of your wives will know! Anyway, on their behalf, I'm asking Sam Vimes. You can really fix it so people have homes fit to live in? Dry, warm, homes?"

"That's the whole point, Dixie!" Vimes affirmed. She smiled, which would have been more winning on a woman half her age, but which still carried allure.

"Then we're with you, Sam! Me and Edward both – he don't like the draughts either!"

Vetiniari nodded.

"Thank you, Miss Va-Va Boom" he said. "Now we have the…Embalmers and Allied Trades?"

Mr Kelly, a tall, saturnine man in black formal mourning suit and top hat, stood up, looking grave in all senses of the word. Rumour had it that he'd got plans to avoid one of his own rather expensive funerals by taking the zombie route, and was more than halfway there.

"Sir Samuel. Your proposal, if I hear it correctly, would vastly enhance public health, decrease the incidence of illness, and add a few years to average life expectancy?"

"It would, certainly." Vimes had an idea of what was coming next. The City's leading undertaker and mortician closed his lips in distaste.

"We know that however poor people are, they inevitably set money aside for a funeral."

Vimes nodded. That was the Cockbill Street Mentality again. Starve tonight, because there was no money for food, but be reassured that when you die of malnutrition, the funeral's paid for. Otherwise the neighbours will talk.

"Our jobs are assured whatever the outcome. If Death and Taxes are always with us, then my profession, representing as it does the former anthropomorphical entity, will always be here. However, we do look with alarm on a proposition that entails a good deal _less_ work, and therefore income, for my members in the course of an average year. We are therefore against. "

"Opinions noted. The Guild of Engravers and Printers?"

Sacharissa Cripslock stood and attracted hostile glances – everyone had read the Times – as well as some claps and cheers.

"Mr Carney is still indisposed, then?" Vetinari asked, with raised eyebrow.

"Indeed, sir!" Sacharissa said brightly. "I made sure of that myself!"

There was a pause.

"And the Printers?"

"The Guild council is all in favour, sir, for reasons advanced more eloquently by others. Safer, cleaner, housing makes for better workers. Printing is a very physical trade requiring much heavy lifting.. We need fit healthy employees. The Duke's proposal would be a very big step towards this. Also, making landlords accountable will mean more trade for the Guild, as somebody will have the extra business entailed in printing off all the rent books and contractual agreements. We are in favour, my Lord!"

She sat down again.

"The Gamblers' Guild?"

"Anything putting more spare cash into the punter's pocket so he might want to chance a bet is _always _something we're in favour of, sir!" said Scrote Jones, who wore the green glass visor of office. "Definitely in favour!"

"Haberdashers' Guild? Mrs Cosmopolite?"

The wizened, slightly bewildered, form of Marietta Cosmopilite stood up. She had remembered to focus and concentrate and not go off on one of her bewildering tangents and obsessions.

"We're in favour, Lord!" she said, resoundingly. "The way I see it, people who don't have damp walls want better curtains. And cushions. And antimicassars. And upholstery. And bedspreads! And herrings… sorry, don't know where that came from. I'd forget my own head if it wasn't nailed on! Better work, more expensive home furnishings, more work and money for haberdashers and upholsterers. We're all in favour!"

"Excellent." Said the Patrician. You may sit, Mrs Cosmopolite?"

The veteran haberdasher glared at Vetinari. "And now I've said me piece, what are you going to do about them bloody dwarves what peep in at me undressing, every night?"

One of the saffron-robed monks, who she sold lodging room to, took her gently by the arm.

"I'll take her home, sir, now she's said her piece, and she'll be no bother. Come along now, Marietta…"

"_It'll never get better if you pick it!" _she shouted as she was led out. _"I'm not as green as I'm cabbage-looking! Every second counts!"_

As she departed, to a loud cry of _There's a lot goes on as we never gets to hear about!, _Lord Rust sniffed into the embarrassed silence and said , unfeelingly,

"Was that dem' woman mentally competent to cast a vote?"

"She _is_ head of the Haberdashers" Vetinari reminded him, through a sea of glares and disapproving looks directed at Rust's insensitivity. "When you consider how much volatile mercury is used in the haberdashery trade for various rreeasons, she is, in all probability, the sanest we can get. She is still aware of the value of a dollar, evidently!"

There was a pause.

"The Historians' Guild? Mr Betteridge?"

"My Lord, our detailed summation was given in conjunction with the Guild of Doctors yesterday. We provided census and historical information to support Doctor Lawn in his presentation to this assembly and have nothing further to add except that, as a Guild, we are in favour. Thank you."

He sat down.

"The Guild of Lifers?"

There was commotion as a large bald man in the prisoners' uniform of the Tanty stepped forward. He was handcuffed to a prison officer at each side. The prison officers came to attention; their prisoner slouched to a halt.

"You are Joe "Lifer" Bushyhead of the Guild of Lags and Prisoners." Said Vetinari.

"That is correct, sir, yes!" said Bushyhead. "As you are well aware, as it was you what sent me down!"

"Vetinari nodded, although his face took on a "I will welcome no familiarities or liberties" look.

"And your Guild members' opinion of Sir Samuel's ideas?

"Well, sir, even though that bloody copper nicked me, and I ain't forgotten, copper, I have to say he's got a point there. I mean, it's bloody well depressing to be sent on compassionate home leave from your nice dry warm comfy cell, only to find the missus ain't made no effort, it's still got the hole in the roof and damp on the wall and mice in the floorboards. I mean, that's bloody wrong, that is! Sending a man out on home leave to a crap hole. They could do better, I mean a man's got a _right!_

"So I'm with the fuzz on this one. Oh, and _peeler_?"

"Yes, Bushyhead?" Vimes said, closing his hand over his truncheon till his knuckles whitened.

"This bit about a property-owning democracy. Will we lifers get a chance to buy our own cells?"

Vetinari glared the consequent laughter and uproar down to an acceptable silence.

"While you are here, gentlemen. It might save time if the Prison Officers' Association went ahead of alphabetical order, as I understand you are returning to the Tanty shortly? Mr Bellamy?"

Assistant Governor Peter Bellamy came to the best attention he could.

"We're all for it, sir. Better housing and a higher standard of living means less crime means a more manageable prison system. And better recruit officers. I'm with Mr Vimes."

"Thank you, Mr Bellamy. You may dismiss."

"Sir!"

Prisoner and escort exited, although their conversation continued.

"Yes, Mr Bellamy, but will I be able to buy my own cell?"

"Not a bloody _chance_, Bushyhead! I might let you choose what colour it gets painted, though."

"You're a toff, Mr Bellamy!"

* * *

**(1) **See my story _**Nature Studies, **_featuring Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who if she existed on Roundworld would have received fan mail from Steve Irwin.

**(2) **see my story _**Murder Most 'Orrible, **_which introduces Davinia Bellamy, an imaginatively gifted amteur Assassin married to prison guard Peter.

**(3)** "Always hold a poisonous snake immediately behind the head, and make sure when you pick up a scorpion, you always have a _really good grip _on it, in the forceps".


	9. Routine Policing

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter Nine**_

The City Council meeting had been suspended again not long after Vetinari had taken submissions from the Guild of Prisoners and the Prison Officers' Association.

The last speaker in the session had been Mrs Manger of the Guild of Launderers, who had pointed out that the biggest single occupational hazard for her members was to be continually working in damp and hot conditions. The next biggest hazard, especially in areas such as the Lady Sybil and certain areas of private practice, was the rather insanitary state of the laundry when they received it, and the possibility that in some circumstances her members might actually pick up illnesses from it. She acknowledged that Doctor Lawn was a very thoughtful employer for her members at the Lady Sybil, who acknowledged the occupational risk, and was one of the few employers in the city prepared to budget for generous sick pay. She also acknowledged that the Doctor and his medical staff were helping them devise safer working procedures and protective equipment that would reduce the occupational risk.

But there were still the physical problems for a laundress going home from a hot wet place to a cold damp one. Chilblains was about the best of the bargain. And if at root, the housing stock for everyone could be improved, then there'd be less contagious disease and less risk of its being passed on to the laundress who had to handle clothing and linen, in circumstances where somebody might have been seriously ill or even died in them. So all things taken into account, my lord, the Launderers are all in favour. Thank you.

And so Vimes was now back with the Watch, yawning, at the end of a long day that wasn't ended yet.

"What have we got, Carrot?" he asked.

"Rooftop protest at the Tanty, sir." he said. "Something to do with the standard of the food. Apparently the vegetarian menu isn't quite up to scratch."

Vimes nodded.

"So we've got twenty or thirty militant vegetarians up on the prison roof chucking tiles down at the officers and chanting slogans. And Peter Bellamy's asked for back- up in case his officers can't talk them down. OK. Get these officers together and form a squad.." Vimes listed three or four Watchmen and women.

"Right away, sir!"

Vimes paused on the way out and said, puzzled, "Vetinari appointed a Maccalariat as prison governor, didn't he? To tighten the place up, and remind the cons they're not in a holiday camp. **(1) **I'm surprised they even _dared_."

"They waited until Dame Amorine took leave, sir." Carrot explained. "The only thing they failed to foresee was that she came straight back when she heard. Now she's in the yard calling threats up through a bull-horn and the cons are too scared to come back _in_, sir!"

Vimes nodded.

"So Peter Bellamy thinks we can negotiate. Good move!"

Dame Amorine Maccalariat, the Governor of the Tanty Prison, was waiting for the Watch in the prison yard. Vimes and his selected officers walked straight in. She fixed them with the affronted glare that was the family hallmark.

_No wonder Vetinari sent one of 'em here, _thought Vimes. _This must be the sort of role where a Maccalariat would shine. I bet the prisoners are terrified of her. _

"This is intolerable, Sir Samuel!" she declared. "I only have to turn my back on this prison for five minutes and a situation like _this_ arises! Just as I was taking my leave to see my grandmother in Quirm, too!"

"Mrs Halogena Maccalariat." clarified Peter Bellamy. "The very respected matriarch of the family."

"Indeed, Mr Bellamy!" the Governor said, inclining her head in a mere nod. She raised the bull-horn again.

"Yes, ma'am?" the imp sitting comfortably in the base of the horn said, with a respectful salute. It had a lot in common with a bullfrog: an absurdly inflated torso that Vimes guessed could store a lot of breath. And in the confiners of the conical horn, anything it relayed would be greatly magnified…

"Tell them once more, in _my_ voice, that they are to get off my prison roof NOW and return to their cells. Or disproportionate sanctions might be taken."

Vimes winced as the message was relayed in a thunderously loud version of Dame Amorina's voice.

Peter Bellamy led him aside.

"Sir Samuel, I could send a few gargoyle officers up there to clear the roof. When they get moving they are incredibly strong creatures, very like smaller, more compact, trolls. But there's always the risk of somebody losing their footing and falling off, and that's from six stories up. And you know what that means!"

"Loss of a prisoner while in custody." Vimes agreed. "Civil Liberties people start screaming. Vetinari demands a completed investigation, but with _no great rush_. The bloody Times reports the case and starts hinting at Watch or Prison Service brutality. Any alternatives?"

"Governor Maccalariat suggested we ask the Assassins' Guild for a squad. That is, we pay for fast stealthy edificeers to get up there and use whatever non-lethal weaponry they have at their disposal to end it. Apparently there's tear gas, laxative gas, stun grenades…"

"And you still end up with a couple of inadvertently dead prisoners, a newspaper full of bad publicity, and still have to pay Guild rates." Vimes finished. "Lucky you thought of the Watch!"

Vimes looked up. In the gathering gloom, he could just about make out a few listless –looking people sitting on the edge of the roof with their legs dangling over the edge. He nodded.

"Officer Romanov? Take me up there, would you. Officer Politek, take Mr Bellamy on your pillion. Let's get up there and have a talk to these people, shall we? Officer von Humpedink, stand by!"

"Hold on tight, mr Bellamy!"

The prison officer later likened a fast vertical take-off on the pillion of a broomstick to something like what a prophet might feel when approached by their God, and whipped into a convenient Third Heaven for a chat. Only he was pretty sure most Heavens didn't have Joe "Lifer" Bushyhead in them livening up the angelic host. Angels were meant to look more, well, _angelic _than that.

"Cor, flippin' heck, Mr Bellamy! You right startled me there!" said Bushyhead, as the broomstick hovered ten feet away from him. .

"I'm glad I've got a chance to talk to you!" Bellamy said, heartfelt, whilst trying hard not to look down. "The lady here is a trained Witch and Watchwoman, by the way."

Irena Politek nodded back. She wore standard Watch uniform, but with a pointy hat and pilot's goggles. She was part of the Air Police, and ranked as a Witch Police Constable.

"So what's the grievance?" Vimes called, from some yards away. Bushyhead turned to regard him. He was well over six feet tall, his head shaven completely bald, with a thick bushy beard and ample tattoos on his muscled arms. **(2) **Normally he'd be trouble, but today he had a worried and anxious look on his face.

"_She's still down there?" _he asked Peter Bellamy,who nodded and looked impassive. Bellamy risked a single giddying downward look: yes, there was Dame Amorine Maccalariat, her tight stern bun a black dot; looking up, arms impatiently folded , an aura of stern-ness seemingly clinging to her.

"Oh, _shit_…." muttered Bushyhead.

"OK." said Bellamy, patiently. "We all know it kicked off just after we got you back from the Palace so you wouldn't miss your tea. There was a riot in the dining hall. Then you did a bit of rabble-rousing and incited fellow prisoners to get up to the roof. Care to tell me why? I can't believe it was just because mozerella couscous was on the vegetarian menu two nights in succession."

"Skills training, Mr Bellamy!" said Bushyhead, brightly.

"Skills training?" said Vimes, incredulously. Like Bellamy, he wasn't happy at hovering over a hundred feet up on a piece of narrow wooden pole that was beginning to chafe uncomfortably, reminding him why broomsticks were almost exclusively a female method of flight.

"Skills training, Mr Vimes!" said Bushyhead, more emphatically.

"We're the Guild of Lags and Prisoners, right? We have a right, in our charter, to two riots per year just so new cons can learn the essential craft skills, for eg, overpowering the guards in the dining room, stuffing the cook head-first into his own cauldron, and generally wrecking the place a little. If we warn Mr Bellamy first, he makes sure the kitchen puts out its oldest most chipped plates and ricketiest tables, so nothing important gets bust, and he can indent for top-quality replacements afterwards. And the guards he puts on are lads who are on a charge for one reason or another, so it's a punishment duty for them, and we takes care not to duff them over _too _badly, we always gives them an escape route and a door what they can lock behind them. In fact, we got Mister Tallyman here as a hostage." A prison guard waved cheerily at them, then resumed a hand of Cripple Mr Onion with three prisoners, one of whom offered him a cigarette and a light.

He didn't look as if he'd been maltreated.

"Once we're up here, we get the cons what have never been on riot training before to chuck a slate each from off the roof – you got to make sure there's nobody underneath, Health and Safety, right? - then sometime around now we'd all surrender and come back in again. It's a nice afternoon out, a bit of a break from routine, nobody gets hurt. Ain't that right, Mr Bellamy?"

Peter Bellamy nodded.

"See that flashing and those loose slates around the chimneystack just there?" he asked. "Do me a favour, Joe. There's a persistent leak there that Gregson's roofers have never been able to get to the bottom of. It comes out in the officers' rest room on the top floor. Rip the lot up for me, would you, so that Gregson's are going to have to re-do it all from scratch? It might cure the leak."

"Right you are, Mr Bellamy!" the lifer said, cheerfully. He nodded at a few cons, who set to.

"Remember, check if there's anyone in the street first! Don't start chucking it at random, you never know who you could hit!"

Then Bushyhead turned to Vimes and Bellamy and said

"To be honest, we've made our point and we'd be happy to come in. But we thought she'd be away for a week, so you could sort it out quietly afterwards without no fuss! We din't expect Her Dameness to come straight back off her leave! She is going to go Bursar on us! We're going to get creamed!"

"Cheesed." said another con, gloomily.

"There's our problem, Sam" said Bellamy, as the two broomsticks descended. "They'll happily surrender, but they're terrified of Dame Amorine."

"And at the very least they're all on the ultimate vegetarian diet for a week. Bread and Water!"

Bellamy grinned. "Their Guild teaches them to deal with that as well. It points out bread is extremely nutritious, especially with a sandwich filling of choice, which can be smuggled in and provided at a consideration."

"Well?" Dame Amorine Maccalariat demanded, as the two broomsticks returned to ground level.

"Are those recidivists ready to surrender?"

"They just need one last push, ma'am." Vimes said, with the smoothest diplomacy he could muster. "If I end the sit-in in the next half-hour, it would free you up to continue your leave, and Deputy Governor Bellamy, as you know, can be trusted to handle the disciplinaries afterwards? After all, that _is _why you have a deputy Governor, somebody who can be entrusted to run the prison while you're on leave."

The Maccalariat considered this.

"Oh, very well!" she said, grudgingly. "I will assure myself the siege is ended, and then leave the consequences to you, Peter. The next coach for Quirm leaves in half an hour. I may as well be on it."

Vimes nodded at Sally von Humpeding. She went to find a private place to Change.

And twenty minutes later, the prisoners on the roof felt a deep, morbid, existential dread descend upon them. It was something to do with the flock of bats that was orbiting the prison roof. The very black, solid, flock of wheeling and banking bats that appeared to be regarding them with almost human sentience. They all watched the cloud draw nearer.

Joe "Lifer" Bushyhead took a deep gulping breath. This was worse than Her Dameness. More immediately frightening. Those bloody bats were _here,_ after all. Her Dameness was standing tapping her foot and glaring through her glasses over a hundred feet below, at ground level. She was a distant threat. Those blood-suckers were _here._ An interview with the Dame could have strong men gibbering, but you _survived _that. Just.

"OK, lads" he said. "Let's call it quits. Back in through the skylights. Move it! Need a hand, Mr Tallyman?"

And so the rooftop protest at the Tanty ended. **(3)**

* * *

Vimes and his squad returned to the Yard.

"Carrot. What the bloody hell are _those_?" he inquired, indicating the packing cases that had appeared in the foyer. Brick and a team of Golem and Troll constables were manoeuvring them to a storeroom, but they were still being off-loaded from a cart in the street.

"Customs and Excise job, sir. Their dockland office is overwhelmed. They've requested we help out." said his deputy.

Vimes picked up a magazine, printed on cheap paper, consisting of coloured woodcuts showing improbable things happening to the accompaniment of large speech bubbles coming out of the characters' heads. Some magazines were still in the original Agatean, and Vimes noted every speech from every character had a greater or lesser number of _urinating dog _pictograms at the end. He looked at one speech, accompanying a boyish-looking character with improbably large round eyes, who was industriously kicking the kungfu out of what were, presumably, his mortal enemies. That is, former mortal enemies who were now discovering what it was to be merely mortal. Every killing blow was accompanied by a very emphatic speech accompanied by as many as seven urinating dogs.

"_Man-gi _comics, sir." Carrot clarified.

Vimes was trying to make sense of one.

"They don't make sense, Carrot. As far as I can tell, the action's running backwards."

"That's because you're reading them the wrong way, sir. We read a book from left to right. The Agateans start at the back, and read it from right to left."

Vimes nodded. He'd heard about mangi comics. The subject matter felt hopelessly limited and somewhat bizarre to him. They always seemed to be about some man-made humanoid machine, so powerfully built that when it went rogue, it was capable of a lot of devastating damage before anyone figured out how to switch it off. _Seen it. When that bloody rogue Golem was terrifying everyone. _Or else some massive lizard-like creature was awoken from a swamp or somewhere, and set about destroying an entire city. _Seen it. We've got something called the Dungeon Dimensions. Or else there was that bloody dragon that appeared out of nowhere and wrecked quite a lot of the city. _ Generally speaking, some wide-eyed and child-like characters became the city's last line of defence against creeping horrors. _Been it. Our eyes have been opened wide on quite a few occasions and you can't get more innocent than the old city Watch believing that just because we got paid a handful of dollars to defend the city, we had a duty to do so. _

And about two-thirds of the way in, the characters would invariably find time to engage in some eye-poppingly explicit sexual gymnastics _Seen it. The old Whore Pits could certainly open a lad's eyes to the possibilities. _

"That's why we're impounding the stuff, sir. There's a row between the importers and the Seamstresses' Guild about demarcation. The Seamstresses want Vetinari to levy an additional tax." Carrot said, helpfully. "And the _hentai _comics are _all _about, er, what the Seamstresses beleive they have a monopoly right on. I beleive the Patrician is going to be prevailed upon to make a ruling."

Vimes picked up another magazine. The plot was convoluted and hard to follow, but it was all about a red-haired girl and her friends who captured animals which later turned into lethal fighting weapons with hidden properties. _Seen it. That bloody Howondalandian woman at the Assassins' Guild thinks like that. And she's got red hair._

"Poke you, man." he read, doubtfully.

"Ok, Carrot. Let's get all this stuff squared away. I don't know, it must rot the minds of young people. "

"A lot of it's being sold with translation notes, sir. The latest arrivals are actually being translated into Morporkian before export, but it's not very good, I'm sorry to say."

"_All your base are belong to us" _Vimes read. It was in the context of an otherwise bewildering story about ships from different planets fighting naval battles in space. Carrot, who had actually ventured into space**(4) **, shrugged. "I believe the protagonist is saying "We have captured all your bases. There is no point in further fighting. Surrender to us now."

Vimes shook his head.

"I wonder if we could organise another little fire…"

"Don't go there, sir. The Guild of Merchants and the Guild of Seamstresses both have an interest here."

"OK, Carrot. I leave it all in your hands. Try not to let Nobby nick _too_ much of it, though."

"Very good, sir!"

Vimes felt a sudden need to clock off and get back to Sybil and Young Sam. He could still have an hour or two of domestic bliss with nobody making inroads on his time. If he hurried.

* * *

**(1) **See my story _**Murder Most 'Orrible, **_where part of the action happens in the Tanty and the Bellamy family are introduced.

**(2) **I have based him on notorious British lifer "Charles Bronson", who changed his name out of admiration for the tough-guy actor from the Death Wish movies, and who has given Governors and warders a hard time wherever he goes.

**(3) **It's like this. The vast majority of inmates at the Tanty are, on the outside, Thieves' Guild members or un-licenced thieves. The Guild takes the point of view that its members are temporarily in an en vironment where their Guild membership should be suspended or otherwise held in abeyance, as the unwritten rule of the Tanty is that no imnate may steal from another without, for eg, having their fingers accidentally caught by this cell door what is swinging shut, tut tut, somebody call for an Igor. Stealing from the prison is perfectly OK, but there are many experienced warders who are watchful and savvy enough to ensure this happens seldom. Therefore, with little scope to practice their craft, Mr Boggis has declared that all Thieves Guild members in the Tanty are ipso facto and self-evidently members of the Guild of Lags and Prisoners. Membership fees are not dealt with in the usual currency of the realm. A quarter-ounce of Jolly Sailor snout acts as a yearly membership fee, backed up by five rollies a month payable to Guild treasurer Mr Nigel Prendergast-Phillips, Cell 17, Landing 32. (formerly of the Guild of Accountants, prior to that sorry business with clients' fees being re-invested on the Quirm Steeplechase). Mr Boggis maintains the most cordial professional relationship with Mr Bushyhead, who is also tasked with explaining the benefits of official Thieves' Guils membership to any unlicenced Thieves ending up in the Tanty. "Sign up _now,_ and you won't, for eg, get done over by Guild enforcers who know exactly when you're being released and who will be waiting for you outside the main gate to welcome you back to society.") Meanwhile, the Tanty acts as an informal adjunct to the Thieves' Guild School, with old-time lags offering a full curriculum of lessons to pass the time with.

**(4) **See _**The Last Hero, **_in which Captain Carrot commands Ankh-Morpork's first spacecraft and visits its Moon.


	10. Getting to the end

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter Ten**_

The City Council meeting resumed again the following morning.

Vetinari again affably acknowledged a full attendance, and said that before the Council moved to what he hoped would be the final session of discussion concerning the Duke of Ankh's New Deal, there was an extraordinary piece of business to resolve.

"This involves a dispute which has arisen between the Guilds of Merchants and Seamstresses. I also note a polite and respectful, but somewhat firm, submission I have received from the Trade Delegation at the Agatean Embassy. I have taken the liberty of requesting the City Watch temporarily impound the commercial goods in question until the debated issues of relative worth, Guild profit, Guild taxation and City tax have been decided, hopefully at this assembly. First speaker… Mrs Palm?"

The head of the Seamstresses' Guild made her stately way forward. Rosie Palm was dressed, as always, to _mostly_ convey the aura of a respectable lady of affaires who had made her way to prosperity and position in a male-dominated world by taking the men on at their own game, and winning. However, she took care to convey, by subtle hints of dress, perfume and manner, the precise method by which she had achieved fame and fortune. Here was a woman who not only had, er, _slept _her way to the top, she was proud of having done so, and indeed was keen to subtly but unmistakeably advertise the fact.

"My Lord, I have here a selection of the latest craze to have hit the streets of Ankh-Morpork." She said, brandishing a selection of magazines. "They are illustrated _comics_…."

"_Graphic novels_, please!" a voice corrected her.

"Illustrated comics, but most certainly _graphic_, in that the story, if there is one, is conveyed by the maximum of pictures and the minimum of text! " she continued. "Calling them _novels_ tends to grossly-overestimate their actual literary content!"

"But perfectly pitched to the estimated average literacy of the Ankh-Morporkian resident," Vetinari observed. "And therefore, when their subject matter is taken into account, likely to prove enduringly popular in this city. Indeed, I note we already see the beginnings of a local home-grown equivalent on sale in this city!"

Sacharissa Cripslock cleared her throat.

"Sir, on behalf of the Guild of Engravers and Printers, may I note that with the rising supremacy of the printing and iconographical sides of my Guild, the advent of the graphic novel offers a new lease of life to old-time skilled and trained engravers, who do not see themselves as doing anything other than the trade they love and are skilled in? Indeed, the graphic novel may well prove to be the spur to a whole new lease of life for the engraving trade, which even the most optimistic of us feared was moribund and dying. Properly handled, I can see this as bringing in revenue and new trade, as well as attracting bright and capable new engraving apprentices to the Guild."

"Well stated, Miss Cripslock." Vetinari noted. "I also see your dear father is now gainfully occupied in engraving and even, ah, scripting, for the new children's comics that are emerging. The… _Beanbag. _The _Handy. _The _Sparkly_.**(1)** My congratulations to him for his enterprise!"

"He was always good with children, sir."

"Indeed. Thank you for your timely contribution. Mrs Palm, you may continue?"

Rosie Palm waved the bundle of comics with a slightly contemptuous air.

"My Lord, these are imported from Agatea where they are considered to be something of an art-form. Normally this would not be of concern to my Guild, except that I note virtually all these _mangy_ comics contain material which up until now has been the sole preserve of my Guild with regards to printing and disseminating. We also have an accepted right to impose tax on third parties who publish and disseminate. We have already won the right to a fixed Guild sales tax on import and sales of Agatean _pillow-books_** (2)**_,_ which are a rather better-produced and more sophisticated product. We are asking for a Guild tax of not less that two pence per copy to be levied on these _mangy_ things. That is fair, my Lord: in this one, content of professional interest to my Guild is limited to four pages out of eighty.

"But when we come to these _hentai_ books… they are exclusively of a sexual nature and the Guild tax should correspondingly be far higher!"

"_Hentai_?" queried Vetinari. His secretary Drumknbott filled the gap.

"I believe it to mean, in Agatean, _pamphlet a man reads with but one hand, _my lord. Or more compactly, a Yen koan, _The sound of one hand reading."_

Vetinari nodded.

"Mrs Palm, may I? Thank you."

He leafed through a sample comic for a few moments.

"Interesting." He eventually said. "There is certainly explicit sexual content between pages thirty-seven to thirty-three inclusive. But I also note page twenty back to page one are a graphic description of a rather brutal war between men and Golem-like entities. Therefore if the Seamstresses' Guild demands a sales tax of two pence based on four pages of sexual content – which is its right – I am bound to speculate that my own Secretariat of Defence should ask for a sales tax of _ten_ pence, as five times more copy is given over to the description of war and fighting."

Vetinari appeared to relish the look on her face for an instant, and said

"I will consider your submission, mrs Palm. But is Mr Dave Stamper present, from the Merchants' Guild? Mr Stamper?"

Dave Stamper (formerly Mr Dave Pinman), proprietor of Dave's Stamps, Pins and Comic Book Emporium**(3)**, stepped forwards. His hair was tied in a loose greasy ponytail, he had a fussy little beard, the grooming of which was rather ruined by the fact it spread out over three chins, and the sort of beer belly that three men (all of them Dave) had laboured to build. **(4)**

"Graphic Novels, sir, are the next big thing."

Vetinari nodded. Dave had correctly prophesised that pins would be a collecting craze. He had then realised the enormous potential in stamps.

"And you are now selling them, I note."

"Indeed, sir. They are already expensive owing to the high cost of import from Agatea…"

"Indeed, Mr Stamper? My information was that outgoing ships use them merely as ballast**(5)**. But _do_ go on."

Dave's Adam's apple bounced nervously.

"Yes, sir. At present they're selling really well, sir. But as a representative of the Guild of Merchants, may I counsel you against imposing too heavy a burden of tax and regulation on the small businessman who is trying to make a honest living based on fast turnover and small unit profit, sir? Too much tax on a product may have the unintended consequence of driving demand down so that everyone suffers and a black market is created. Sir."

Vetinari nodded, sagely.

"Yes. I understand the shelving underneath your counter is painted black. Such a _practical_ colour that hides a multitude of blemishes!"

Vetinari paused for just long enough, and delivered judgement.

"For most of the imported _man-gi_ comics, I decree a single unified city sales tax of seven pence a copy will apply. The Seamstresses' Guild may petition me for a small rebate. However, for those _hentai _comics…" and his mouth crinkled with a certain distaste as he held one gingerly by the corner,

"…which deal with, ah, those interpersonal relationships and issues of gender politics which are the province of the Seamstresses' Guild, I decree that the Seamstresses' Guild and only that Guild has the right to buy, sell, and trade in them."

Mrs Palm looked, unwisely as it turned out, triumphant.

"However, as they are very clearly a luxury purchase, a City sales tax of twenty pence per copy will apply. The Seamstresses' Guild is charged with collecting this revenue on behalf of the City. I would also ask Mrs Palm to consider the very sound mutual advantage to be gained by employing Mr Stamper as its retail agent to sell such material, under plain covers, naturally, on behalf of the Guild. He is uniquely suited to fix the price, source the material, and provide only the best for the paying customer, and will be well worth a percentage of the retail sales price. I'm also sure that he will have a pot of tea ready, as no doubt the Agony Aunts will be dropping by to agree the fine details of the agreement, and frequently afterwards, to ensure the contract is being honoured by all sides. This is agreeable to both sides? Capital. Commander Vimes will of course release the impounded material to you, Mr Stamper, so as to free up cell space at the Yard. "

Vetinari smiled a tight smile.

"One last thing, Mr Stamper. While you are standing, as the representative today of the Merchants' Guild Council, what is the Guild's opinion of Sir Samuel's proposed new deal?"

Dave looked relieved, and smiled.

"Well, sir. Healthier people in better homes with more disposable income and more free time to spend it in. Time, for instance, for a hobby, like stamp-collecting, golem-spotting or study of the Agatean language. How can we say "no"?"

"Thank you, Mr Stamper. Now. Ah yes, back to the Lawyers' Guild. Mr Slant?"

As Dave Stamper gratefully sat down, the respected zombie Mr Slant stood up. He waited for complete silence and then made his case.

"We have several objections to this rather hare-brained and socially disruptive plan, my Lord." he began.

"Firstly, many laws will need to be changed or amended."

"That is no bar, Mr Slant" said Vetinari. "Laws are changed all the time in the light of technological development, changes in circumstances, or changes in social attitudes. For instance, there was still a law on the statue books until not long ago, stating that it was perfectly legal to slay any Llamedosian caught within the precincts of this city after the gates closed at night, provided it was done with a longbow, and the Llamedosian in question was not actively seeking sanctuary in the Temple of Blind Io.**(6)**"

Vetinari shook his head in assumed disbelief. "How we missed _that_ one for eight hundred years is shocking and surprising. Just as it was shocking and surprising to Mr Rhodri Williams from Pant-y-Gyrdl, who was merely here on business, and to the Watchmen, who discovered the assailant appeared to be within his legal rights."

"We got him in the end for causing an affray, though" Vimes remarked. "And going illegally armed outside the Butts."

"Indeed, Sir Samuel. So, Mr Slant, you are saying a proposition that would make work for your members in revising and redrafting the laws is a bad thing? Or do you see the current laws governing rents, lets and housing to be such a work of perfection that they require no change?"

"No, my Lord" said Slant. "But the framework of jurisprudence and legal structures through which we all live our lives has a purpose intrinsic in itself. I am reluctant to change or repeal even _one_ law without first extensively checking and testing that this does not have a corrosive effect on the _status quo_. Even if it is a seemingly archaic law from a long-gone century, as was the example you quoted, I would rather leave it on the statute books and rely on a common-law understanding that murder is wrong, and that the current happy state of our friendship with Llamedos renders such a law both archaic and unnecessary. Far rather such a law remained, albeit unpublicised and unadvertised, than it be arbitrarily removed from the statute books."

"But the attempted murderer in the Williams case was an unlicenced Assassin who made a study of loopholes like that." Vimes objected. "He reckoned that neither the Watch nor the Guild could get him if he exploited old archaic laws like that ! He was bloody nearly right, too! You know what the Assassins are like for respecting the very letter of the law!"

"One bad case does not a bad law make, Sir Samuel!" the Zombie objected. "And I believe we have had a very similar discussion to this one in private, recently. Let me recap. The status quo is hedged about with laws and legislation and accepted customs which carry almost the same weight as formal law.

"It is not, for instance, a criminal offence to not pay one's rent. Although a landlord deprived of that rent may legally seek distraint by , for instance, minimising the potential for continued breach through eviction. Eviction is not legally prohibited and is sanctioned by both custom and current law. A landlord who is a creditor may seek redress by legally impounding, via bailiffs, such goods of value as the indebted tenant owns. This is our law, and it is set up to defend the interests of both landlord and tenant. I see no reason to change or alter it!"

"How, exactly?" asked Vimes. " I can see how it benefits the landlord, but what advantage does the tenant get?"

"It asserts the tenant's place in the status quo, Mr Vimes!" Slant said, sharply. "Their legal obligation is made expressly clear. Pay your rent fully and on time or be evicted. How can the law be clearer than that?"

"So the status quo tells the tenant he is a peasant with no rights. The same status quo tells the landlord and property owner he can do whatever the hell he likes as the law is made to defend him. Privilege. Private law, again. Upset the framework and we take away the _privilege_ from a few well-cosseted lives. "

"I represent the legal establishment of this City!" Slant said, crossly. "I will not stand by and see the interests of the City threatened!"

"Remind me. The City consists of Ronald Rust, Charles Venturi, Basil Omnius, Bernard Selachii, and… what's the Duke of Eorle's first name again?"

_Interesting. Zombies sweat dust. I've never seen that before. Not even on Reg Shoe when he was trying to tell me a porkie._

"So the Lawyers are against" Vetinari summarised. "On the old legal principle that says you pay more attention to the instructions of your richest and most frequent clients. Thank you, mr Slant. You have nothing more to add?"

Vetinari continued.

"I believe the Guild of Musicians are indisposed, as nobody in that profession gets up before four in the afternoon. Do we have the Guild of Plumbers and Dunnikindivers? Sir Charles?"

The portly figure of Sir Charles Lavatory stood forward.

"Haqlf and half, sir. Plumbers unanimously in favour, as its guaranteed work for a long time. Dunnikindivers, however, not so crazy about a move to modernise the facilities, and phase out earthclosets and septic tanks. So they're against a threat to their working livelihoods."

"Thank you, Sir Charles. The Rat-Catchers' Guild? Mr Pode?"

The elderly rat-catcher stepped forwards. Although he looked as if he was suffering from several trade-related diseases all at once, he wheezed

"_Agin_, sir. A cleaner city means less rats means less work. Shouldn't imagine the Dwarfs is going to be happy with that either, miserable little buggers…"

"Thank you, mr Pode. The Seamstresses' Guild? Mrs Palm?"

Rosie stepped up again.

"My lord, my memories of this city go back a long way and I recall it as being filthier and more disgraceful than it is today. Even so, even allowing for the very worst of the old unlicenced so-called "Whore Pits" having been gentrified to a standard the Guild sees as acceptable, there are still significant areas of this city that the richest of us would be ashamed of and disgraced by.

Women come to my Guild from all walks of life and for all sorts of reasons. Even so, the biggest factor is what it always has been. Poverty. That poverty, I think, will always be with us and will always be a recruiting sergeant for my Guild. But those levels of poverty that have existed, that take away a girl's teeth and her looks and turn her into a consumptive skeleton…this, alas, also deprives her of a use for me. If there is a prospect of an increase in general living standards that removes these spectres and means that poverty does not deprive a woman of her earning potential in my employment, then I am all for a society that institutes such improvements. As one who was there on the 25th May and saw the hopes and dreams of our Revolution cruelly broken, I stand alongside Sir Samuel. This might be the way to ensure the Lilac flourishes. Thank you. "

"Thank you, Mrs Palm. The Guild of Shoemakers and Leatherworkers? Mr Tuttle?"

Scrope Tuttle took the floor.

"Obviously I like to see people in shoes and boots." he began. "The more the better. Like our colleagues in the Tailors' Guild, we wan t to see more disposable income and people with more dry places to store clothes and shoes in. People in better health take more care of their appearance and want more clothing items – shoes, boots, belts, leather jackets, the lot. No, I can't see anything wrong in Sir Samuel's proposals. My Guild is all for them!"

"Tailors' Guild?"

"Mr Tuttle has spoken for us, sir. We are in favour."

"Is there anybody here from the Teachers' Guild?"

There was a genteel commotion as somebody moved to the front. She appeared to be having a running argument with a peer and was speaking in the sort of forceful, exasperated, carrying, voice a teacher uses when she is trying her hardest to be patient, at the end of an exasperating day, with an especially thick pupil.

"Look, I thought I'd explained it once. It's perfectly simple! Now _pay attention_. Yes., I'm an Assassin. And yes, I've already spoken once at this assembly. But that was as an _archaeologist_, for goodness sake! I teach at the Assassins' School. And like all my colleagues there, I am also a member of the Teachers' Guild, as good practice dictates! It does _not _mean the Guild of Assassins gets three votes! Don't let these clothes, _or my concealed weapons, _fool you into thinking otherwise!"

Miss Alice Band bustled to the front of the class, metaphorically speaking.

"Good morning, my Lord. It's me again, I'm afraid."

"So I perceive. Is Master Greetling still on long-term sick leave?"

"I'm afraid so, my Lord. The Guild Council knew I'd be here on behalf of the Archaeologists. They asked me if I wouldn't mind."

"Always a delight, Miss Band. Please proceed."

Alice allowed her eyes to pass around the massed Guild leaders and civic dignitaries. Then she spoke, aware of having got the full attention of the class.

"Sir, I may not be the right teacher to make these points, as my place of study is the Assassins' Guild School where we see, generally, the very best children from the wealthier families. The vast majority of my students are either from good homes, in the best of health, and supported by family money, or else are very bright Scholarship pupils with a desire to learn. In this latter case, however, we see a microcosm of the conditions that give my fellow teachers great cause for pastoral concern. If my colleague Miss Sanderson-Reeves were here, I have no doubt she would speak more forcefully and eloquently than I on the negative influence on those students of poor housing, poor diet outside the Guild, and low or non-existent social expectations brought about by coming from the poorer districts of the City."

"No doubt" agreed Vetinari. "Well, we can be thankful for small mercies."

"Indeed, my Lord" agreed Alice, keeping her face deliberately expressionless.

"But for my peers in less socially favoured schools, these things are a reality and an everyday burden to be carried. It's amazing the difference even a good breakfast in the morning makes on a student's ability to learn and work. Good clothes that fit, footwear without holes in, a quiet place after school that offers space to do one's homework to a satisfactory standard. We take these things for granted, at least those of us who went to good schools do. A school properly equipped and fit for the purpose is another thing we take for granted. I was lucky enough to join my school at a time when expansion of opportunity to female pupils meant a massive refurbishment, and an expansion from the original Filigree Street site onto new sites around the City. Our flagship is of course the Animal Management Unit. That offers study, research and classroom space as well as the Menagerie and its supporting services."

"Ah, the pettin' zoo!" somebody said. It had a Rust-like bray to it.

"Emphatically _not_, my Lord!." Alice rebuked him. "Unless you wish to call round and try to pet a few of our animals? Miss Smith-Rhodes is quite proud of her new acquisitions, the Banded Coits from Genua, that are said to be one of the deadliest venomous snakes in the Delta!"

She continued, after the laughter had died down,

"I have contributed to a research paper on how the general standard of education, for girls as well as boys, may be improved in this City. I do not propose to repeat myself. But well-equipped schools which are well-financed, with trained teaching staff who are well paid and resourced, means nothing if the children still go back to unfit damp and leaky homes at night, live several steps away from malnutrition, wear clothes not even a shonky shop would care to buy, and sleep in damp dirty beds. By Year Three at the Guild school, we begin to see all but the very best of our Scholarship pupils fall behind their more fortunate peers. This is not because they are less capable – indeed, the fact they've got as far as they have is commendable enough. But the socio-economic gap is such that they will, inevitably, fall behind. Magnify this across a city, and you will see the huge and entirely avoidable waste of human potential.

"I understand Sir Samuel is endowing the Builders' Guild School with a large charitable donation, and that he is considering plans for a dedicated Watch school. I would ask him to consider extending charitable donations to all schools in the city.

"Except, perhaps, ourselves and the Thieves, as arguably we don't need it and he'd be reluctant to give it anyway, knowing his opinions of both of us! Ladies and gentlemen, the Teachers' Guild is wholly in favour. Thank you."

"Thank you, Miss Band. A well-crafted argument and a delight to listen to. Now, the Thieves' Guild. Mr Boggis?"

"You can speak for yourself when you say the Assassins don't need the money, Miss Band!" Boggis opened, pleasantly.

"We're not proud, Mr Vimes, and _our _school could use a boost!"

"I'll bet!" said Vimes.

Boggis grinned.

"What can we say? More money in the purse, healthier people earning more ands spending more, more and better household goods, richer merchants. From my point of view, what's not to like? Our muggers get you when you're out of the house, our armed robbers can do your shops, our burglars get you at home."

Boggis paused, and smiled, oblivious to the hostile stares.

"But of course if you're earning more, you can pay a revised Guilds premium for a peaceful and stress-free life, knowing my Guild will then leave you alone. Think of it as protection money. The thieves' Guild is in favour, my lord!"

"Noted!" Said Vetinari.

"The Town-Criers' Guild?"

A handbell rang, loudly.

"OYEZ, Oyez! The Ancient Guild of Town Criers Is All In Favour of Sir Samuel! As It Don't Half Cramp Your Style When a Damp Bedroom Gives You Laryngitis! OYEZ!"

"Maybe a little less loud next time, please" Vetinari rfequested, as the echoes died away.

"The Victim's Guild?"

The City's resident morbid masochist, Mr Echinoid Blacksly, limped forward. He had just been released from the Lady Sybil after agreeing a $500 dollar fee to take a beating meant for another who had incurred the wrath of Chrysophrase the troll.

"We're victims" he croaked. "On the one hand I like living in a slum with water dripping down the walls as it confirms me in my basic sense of helplessness and despair. On the other hand I might really hate the idea of being home-improved against my will . Close call, but I'll go against Sir Samuel on the grounds that the Watch might be brutal to me one night."

"And that, I believe, is it!" Vetinari said, satisfied. The statistics, Drumknott?"

"Out of the seventy-seven major Guilds and civic institutions that registered a vote, sir, sixty-one are in favour of Sir Samuel's ideas and sixteen are against. Unseen University chose to register an abstention vote, I believe because the faculty were in intellectual disarray, and the Guild of Sailors are, well, at sea, after you persuaded the Guild of Prostitutes to lift the sailmakers' strike. The Guild of Prostitutes are busy dealing with the strike and send apologies and a proxy yes-vote".

Vetinari nodded.

" I believe at this stage it is customary to deliver a summing-up. Allow me fifteen minutes for reflection, lead our guests to the refreshments provided, and we will reconvene at eleven-thirty. Thank you."

* * *

**(1) **The _**Beano, Dandy and Sparky **_are classic British childrens' comics going right back to the 1930's. The _**Beano**_ and the _**Dandy**_ have been almost continually in print for nearly eighty years. The _**Sparky**_ , which this writer always considered funniest and a cut above, died" in the early 1980's.

**(2) **My old university taught a module in Japanese art of the sort that influenced Beardsley. The university library kept a shelf of copiously illustrated reproductions of Japanese erotic and sexual art – the "pillow book" tradition. These were by far and away among the most frequently borrowed books in the Library. No doubt the UU Librarian has a similar observation to make about his art shelves – nobody ever borrows the still-lives of bowls of fruit, but the Female Nude moves so fast she gets jet-lag.

**(3) **The premises had changed name and direction again, recently. Dave was getting steadily richer on his ability to spot and exploit trends.

**(4) **Yes, I do have Comic-Book Guy from _**The Simpsons **_in mind here. As perhaps did Terry Pratchett.

**(5) **This is exactly how the first American comic books arrived in volume in the UK in the 1950's – as ballast in ships' holds. Int heir country of origin, Superman and Batman were viewed merely as waste paper and bulk that could soak up surplus water in the bilges. But the ones fit for retrieval were enthusiastically received by dockers in Liverpool and Belfast and London and a new craze began.

**(6) **The British city of Chester had a similar law, first enacted in 1098 when Chester was the last English bastion against the perfidious raiding Welsh. It remained on the statute books and just missed still being legal in the new millennium – it was finally noticed and repealed in 1998, on its 900th anniversary.


	11. Vetinari's Price

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter Eleven**_

_The long-awaited continuation of a much-loved tale, requested over and again by fans. Thank you. You're welcome. Sorry it took so long._

"Anything new, Carrot?" Vimes asked, when he eventually returned to the Yard. He still felt a little bit battered after winning his case in Council and the consequent private interview with Vetinari, which as always had carried a very barbed and pointed sting in the tail.

He also felt he'd been fleeced, twice over: once after Lord Downey had trapped him into an elegant and perfectly lawful gouge at his financial resources, which he really should have seen coming. The skills of Assassination could be applied to more than just merely inhuming somebody, after all.

And a second time when Vetinari had…

Vimes shuddered and put the memory away, so that it could ambush him in a back alley of its own choosing, ie just as he was dropping off to sleep.

Captain Carrot looked up from the report digests prepared by Pessimal, with the assistance of Miss Maccalariat, and smiled.

"Good day at the Palace, sir?" he asked, passing over the digest.

"Yes and no." Vimes replied, pleased with what he'd achieved but not wanting to dwell on the price Vetinari had eventually exacted. He distracted himself by reading the report on the latest incidents and crimes around the city. Or at least the ones Pessimal thought worthy of bringing to his personal attention.

"I see we have a brand new way of _attempting suicide_, Carrot." Vimes remarked. "Just when you think they can't get more inventive…"

"It would seem that way, sir." Carrot agreed. "Mr. Snetterton-Lewis is said to be recovering well in the prison hospital."

Vince Snetterton-Lewis had been a notorious enforcer for a crime syndicate led by the Krayfish Twins, Ronnie and Reggie. Even Chrysophrase was said to be wary of the twins, and sought to stay on friendly business relations with them.

"The one they called the _Baby Crusher._" remarked Vimes, reading on.

"Not literally, sir. That was just a name**(1)**. Or Doctor Bellamy wouldn't have let him live."

Vimes nodded. Snetterton-Lewis was also known, in crime circles, as a bit of an idiot. He'd once displeased Reggie Krayfish, who had ordered his head nailed to a small occasional coffee table as punishment for some slight or other.

Now serving time at the Patrician's pleasure in the Tanty, he had responded to some slight loss of prison privileges by looking principal warder Peter Bellamy full in the eye and mouthing the famous last words _"People I know, know where your family lives."_ Other, lesser, prison guards might have felt a little intimidated at words like this from a well-connected prisoner. Bellamy had merely grinned, confirmed his home address was 14 Spa Lane, Lower Tump – would you like to borrow a pencil and write that down? - and promised to pass on his good wishes to Mrs Bellamy when he got home that evening.

The next day, a bouquet of flowers, large, ornate, with no expense spared, had arrived at the Snetterton-Lewis family home. They were delivered personally by a black-clad student Assassin, a pleasant and personable young boy, who smiled winningly at Mrs Snetterton-Lewis and said "My mum wants you to have these. They're a free gift!"

Puzzled, Mrs Snetterton-Lewis accepted them, noting the card read "Bellamy's the Florist, Pelicool Steps", and that the message was _It must be hard with a husband in prison. Please accept this gift as a token that you are well thought of. _

Mrs Snetterton-Lewis had accepted the flowers, found vases for them, and put them around the house, feeling puzzled but thinking nothing more of it. She did mention it to her husband the next time she visited. She was alarmed that he went white, then green, and started mumbling "Oh, shit…" quietly to himself.

"_People I know, know where your family live." _Vimes repeated to himself. "It cuts both ways." He paused, and grinned.

"Carrot, did we impound the flowers? If she's up to her old tricks again, this time we've _got_ her!"

Doctor Davinia Bellamy was indeed a florist. Some years personally she'd come to Assassins' Guild and Watch notice for her talent for Saying It With Flowers. The fact the flowers invariably said _"Drop Dead!"_ had provoked her arrest. It still irked Vimes that Vetinari had offered her one of his bloody Angels and sent her to the Assassins, who had signed her up as Guild School Botany Mistress. She still taught her particular skills to Assassins and had indeed forged a lucrative new career**(2)**.

"The flowers were perfectly normal ones, sir. Nothing lethal or poisonous this time. No Howondalandian Death Lilies nor Cyanide Tulips in _that _bouquet. And giving somebody a bunch of flowers is not an arrestable offence."

"And she sent her son. The student Assassin. To deliver at the door. There's threatening behaviours and there's threatening behaviour, Carrot."

"Yes sir, but this is the sort we can't arrest her for, sir. Although I believe Mr Snetterton-Lewis is recovering well in the Tanty infirmary."

"Did she send him flowers too?" asked Vimes, hopefully.

"No, sir. Mrs Snetterton-Lewis was incensed he'd put her in harm's way from the Killer Florist and hit him with a chair. It took three warders to drag her off."

Vimes smiled.

"And how did Ronnie and Reggie take it when they heard?"

"They went round to see Mrs Bellamy and apologise, sir. They don't want the Guild of Assassins on their case, and anyway they've got their own honour code. Apparently they got on like a house on fire and went away with an armload of flowers each. They appreciated that!"

Vimes nodded. The twins Veronica and Regina Krayfish might be ruthless and near-homicidal crime overlords – over_ladies_ - but they had their own code of conduct. And as Thieves' Guild alumni, they and the Assassins would show each other a certain respect and mutual understanding. And they were feminine enough to appreciate very good floristry.

"Chalk it up to attempted suicide and Being Bloody Stupid, then". Vimes decided. He read on.

"_Clacks crime?_ Carrot, what the Hells is a code Four-One-Nine?"

Carrot cleared his throat, nervously.

"It's a new type of fraud, sir. Randomly selected persons receive a detailed clacks message purporting to have been smuggled out of Howondaland. You've got a sample version there…"

Vimes read it. In fractured Morporkian, it purported to be an appeal for help from a trustee for a disgraced Paramount Prince of Matabeleland, who had formerly had responsibility for the Paramount King's finances. Fortunately, while assisting the Paramount with setting up secret numbered Überwaldean bank accounts against the day when he might be deposed by disloyal elements within the kingdom, he had been able to salt away a little something for himself. Following the unfortunate Finance Prince's ceremonial dismembering by wild hungry lions, the friend trusted with disposing of his effects had discovered title to $AM1,000,000, currently held in the form of _rand_, the universal Howondaland currency. This could not be legally removed from Matabeleland, and the friend required your help, _for you are surely and certainly a man of probity and proven integrity_ who he was sure would not try to cheat him.

"In order to get this money out of Matabeleland, I require only your account details at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork so that I can pay the cash in. When I get to Ankh-Morpork myself, I will allow you to keep ten percent, $AM100,000, as token of thanks, and I will collect the rest.

As this is illegal under Matabele and Ank-Morporkian law, _tell nobody._ Please reply by return Clacks with your bank details.

Yours truly,

Joseph N'Tegreti,

Former finance Officer"

Vimes frowned.

"And let me guess. His local associate then cleans out the account and has it away on his toes. Carrot, how many people have fallen for this? Nowhere in Howondaland _has_ the bloody Clacks, I know that for a fact!"

Carrot smiled. "I took this to Mr Von Lipwig at the Bank, sir. I knew he'd be professionally interested!"

"I'll bet. And just how did _Albert Spangler_ help us in our inquiries?" Vimes inquired.

"He laughed and said it was a classic idea updated for the clacks age, and he wished he'd thought of it himself. Then he suggested ways we can out-think and outwit them. I think we can expect a few arrests very soon, sir."

"I'm not making him a Special Constable, Carrot."

"I thought you'd say that, sir. That's why I signed him on as a Fraud Advisor to the Particulars. He was keen to help."

Vimes gave Carrot a long hard look.

"How is it, Carrot, that people or ethnicities or occupational groups I expressly say should _not _belong to the Watch _always_ end up here? At the last count, we had a Vampire, two witches, _and_ an Assassin.."

"You _did_ reconsider about magic users, sir, and you made the reflective judgement that since witches seem to have their heads screwed on, people tend to do what a witch tells them, _and_ they come with their own broomsticks, which is a great saving, we could do worse than recruit two for the Air Police**(3)**3. And it also allowed you to make Buggy up to Sergeant."

Vimes gave up. It was hard to argue with Carrot.

"Where's our Maccalariat up to with the filing?" he asked, praying it was pretty near finished.

"I believe she's started on the "K'"'s, sir" Carrot said, helpfully. "But she's doing a wonderful job. I've never seen the files looking neater and we can see the colour of some of the desk-tops now!"

Vimes sighed.

Another few weeks of Fluorine Maccalariat, then. How typical of Vetinari to find a way of thanking the Watch that was also a punishment.

Which took Vimes' mind back to…

* * *

Earlier on that day, Vetinari had patiently listened to, then summarily disposed of, the City lords' objections to Vimes' New Deal for Ankh-Morpork.

He had ruled that Samuel Vimes, as Duke of Ankh-Morpork, was perfectly entitled to make such radical changes in the _de facto_ legal relationship between landlord and tenants as he saw fit. That was his right. Vetinari saw nothing in the proposed new scheme that would threaten the security of the city. The other Lords were of course free to carry on with their own pre-existing arrangements, as in a _laissez-faire_ economic order requiring only the balance of established market forces to self-regulate and balance the system, that was _their _right. He, Vetinari, would be consulting with His Grace the Duke and monitoring what sounded like an audaciously exciting new way, to see if it worked and whether or not it was worth expanding in due course. That was _all_, gentlemen, there will be nothing else, and do not let me detain you. Sir Samuel, please remain.

The lords had filed out sullenly, apart from Lord De Worde, who was smiling quietly to himself. Vimes noted his reaching into a pocket, and hear a faint muffled _clonk!_ and a tiny _Ow! _Vetinari heard it too, and smiled a quiet smile.

"I will be with my Regiment!" Lord Rust said, tersely.

"I'll put my Golems on standby!" Vimes countered.

Rust left, under a withering glare from Vetinari.

"That rather sounded like a threat, sir!" Vimes observed.

Vetinari shrugged.

"Ronald is given to making such remarks. He has only followed through on them once, during the Leshp emergency, when he came to me in this office and suggested I stand down for the duration. As you remember. Which is an issue I hope to raise with you and Lady Sybil, when she arrives. Her presence has been requested."

"You've asked Sybil here?" Vimes said, suddenly sitting up straight.

"Indeed, Sir Samuel. She is intelligent and forthright and her counsel is at least as good as that of any other City noble. As I know you will not make any great gesture with what was, prior to marriage, her money, without asking her first, I would rather like her to be here, to hear her opinion of an idea or two I have had myself."

Vimes and Vetinari made small talk for a while whilst waiting for Sybil. Vimes was still wondering what the _real_ reason was for Vetinari to have invited Sybil over.

"This idea of a new model town, Sir Samuel. Have you given any great consideration as to a location? I believe you suggested the name of Ankh New Town."

"Yes, sir." Said Vimes. "That would take advantage of there being an appreciable amount of spare building land on the Turnwise side of the city, out towards the new Zoo site. The advantage is that there's now a good road and public omnibus links out towards the Zoo, and for the Zoo site to work it needed ample supplies of water, so new wells and boreholes had to be sunk. George Pony estimates there's more and to spare there, enough to support a human population as well."

Vetinari nodded.

"According to the Guild of Historians, there was a human hamlet there many hundreds of years ago. _Skell Moor_, it was called. The Zoo occupies a slight valley slope leading down towards a tributary river of the Ankh. _Skell Moor's Dale_, of old."

Vetinari paused, reflectively. "A little further along, Dwarfs of old had a trading post. The Dwarf chief was called _D'G'Hn_, and established his _hamle_t there, at the Eel Ford of the river. Which offers you _D'G'nham,_ or _Eelford,_ as alternate names."

Vimes turned the names over in his head. Of course a new district of the City should have a better name than AnkhNewTown. He found himself almost appreciating Vetinari's skill with words.

"And should you build on the widdershins side of the city, towards Quirm, I would suggest you look at the villages of _Milletoun _and _Queines _and the land surrounding them as an ideal nucleus for a new town." he heard Vetinari say. "The advantage is that this land is already owned by the Ramkins, and would be an ideal base to expand from. I might even suggest ribbon development back down the Quirm Road, until it becomes the Ruddyroy Road and part of the city proper, at the Rimwards Gate and Edgeway Road."

Vimes nodded; Carrot had once mentioned to him that where Edgeway Raod passes the city wall at the Rimwards Gate, continuing ultimately to Quirm, the derivation of "Ruddyroy Road" in New Ankh was a corruption of the Quirmian "_Rue des Rois"_ - Road of Kings.

_More bloody kings, _he thought, _"They're every bloody where. _

But _Milletoun Queines_ sounded like the perfect name for a new town….no doubt the Morporkians would bastardise the Quirmian into something even more fitting. **(4)**

And then Sybil arrived.

"Hello, Sam." she said, thrusting Young Sam at Drumknott.

"Entertain him, please, Rufus. He likes coloured pencils and paper to draw on." she said, in a voice commanding obedience.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. Sybil said

"Havelock, you _do_ tend to ask for me when it's inconvenient. It's the nanny's day off, and I wasn't going to leave him with the kennel maids. They'd let him eat the coal, or something, and I'm not having that!"

She sat, and fixed the Patrician with a steely eye.

"So what's so important? I heard Sam got his way at Council, and if you ask me, I'm all behind him, always have been! When I saw some of the slums my tenants live in, I could have _died!"_

Vetinari nodded.

"What I have to say to Sir Samuel now is also something you should hear, Lady Sybil, as I understand you set great store on making joint financial decisions." he said.

"To begin with, I am wholly in support of Sir Samuel's ideas. Most far-sighted and most commendable. For some years now I have been exploring ways of bringing about a similar goal, but I have never had what might be termed sufficient leverage to get it past the coalition of Old Lords, who have always argued against it, as prejudicial to their interests. Until now. Now a crack has appeared in their formerly solid ranks and one of the Lords of the City has broken away from the common consensus, others will follow. I can move more surely in speeding this end, and I thank you both. "

Vimes nodded. Not even Vetinari could have hoped to stand against all the lords, united in wanting to remove a Patrician who was wantonly going against their interests. Now, he had given the Patrician a couple of aces to play.

However." He added, and the change in tone was noticeable,

"I note that in a well-publicised _**Times**_ article, you were quoted as saying you could put three million dollars into your Great Work of renewing and updating Ramkin property investments and encouraging new growth and investment. I am aware that is a straw figure you plucked from the air without paying the precise details of the costing too much thought.

"Regrettably, however, you failed to consider that I am on record as saying my Undertaking to repair and improve the city's infrastructure will require investment of five hundred thousand dollars.

"Sir Samuel, it is scarcely supportive of you, as Duke of Ankh and the perceived second most powerful man in this City, for you to undermine your Patrician by saying you can afford to pay out at least six times more than he can raise. Even if the money is going to a related worthy end."

Vimes went icy cold as the implication hit him. _He'd upstaged Vetinari. In public. __Ye Gods, does he think I'm making a bid for the Patricianate? Wouldn't know where to start! _

Sybil squeezed his hand reassuringly. In the background was the scritting of coloured pencils on paper as Drumknott conscientiously sought to be a good child-minder.

Then Vetinari spoke again, with less ice in his voice.

"Happily, Sir Samuel, since you have money to spare, some of it can be used for the good of the wider city. A private donation, made altruistically by a very wealthy benefactor. Let me suggest, three million dollars?"

Sybil looked across at Sam and nodded.

"Sir Samuel, you were astute enough to perceive an un-subtle threat in Lord Rust's words to me as he left the room. It occurs to me that one of the duties of a gentleman is to raise regiments. After all, Lady Sybil, your grandfather was one of this city's greatest – and best – generals. Uniquely, Field-Marshal Sir Joshua Ramkin _won _his battles. Look at the Zulu War, for instance, and the way he turned a Rust and Eorle joint disaster at Isandlhwana and the desperate defence of Lawkes' Drain into final victory.**(5)**

"Your father disbanded the last of the family regiments, enabling the seven million a year your family receives in revenues to pile up in a high-deposit bank account and miscellaneous investments. For nearly fifty years. A simple calculation makes that between three hundred and three hundred and fifty million dollars. Even before compound interest is taken into account."

Vetinari smiled benignly.

"So three million dollars is a drop in the ocean. And a return to the family tradition of sponsoring Regiments is surely something which the shade of your grandfather would look upon with approval. I require an insurance policy against Ronald Rust seizing the Patricianate by armed force. You, Sir Samuel, will sponsor it."

"Sir, who commands?" Sam Vimes said, his head spinning. "I'm hardly trained.."

"I propose a new Army." Vetinari said. "A new model Army, loyal only to the Palace and the City. I have suitable officers lined up. Colonels Wrangle and Mountjoy-Standfast. Men who rose through merit and not patronage, who know their job, who are competent and able. And there is no shortage of skilled sergeants in places like Llamedos."

Vetinari outlined his plan: one regiment of Foot Palace guards to replace the current rag-tag of not very bright men, who had anyway been ineffectual in preventing Rust from usurping the Oval Office. One of Guards Cavalry, in the fullness. And one of…

"Barking Dogs?" Vimes exploded. "Those lethal Agatean fireworks?"

"The Guild of Artificiers have been conducting experiments, Sir Samuel." Vetinari said, smoothly. "With sufficient investment, I am persuaded we can have excellent artillery far in advance of anything else on the Disc. Perhaps pointing out over the Estuary, where the Klatchians intended to anchor their invasion fleet and disembark their Army. Periodically, we can hold demonstrations for the information of foreign military attachées"

"But, sir, is this not dangerously near to _gonnes_?" Vimes asked, desperately. Vetinari's gaze flickered, for an instant.

"I can see why you think that way" he replied, after some thought. "But the Dogs of War are large, cumbersome, things requiring a team of horses to pull them. They are not and will not be made man-portable. It will take fabulous amounts of money to perfect the idea, Sir Samuel. Money not available to the majority of men. It will require our best and brightest artificers and alchemists to make he idea work. Better their skills are occupied working for the City on a specified goal to be used, ultimately, for the common good. Therefore only governments, or rather _this_ government, will hold the weapons. They will be for too expensive for others. Cost and technological difficulty will regulate ownership."

Vimes held his peace. Sybil said, loudly and clearly

"It is a family duty, Havelock. I accept."

"Spoken like a true descendent of Sir Joshua." Vetinari said, approvingly. "I have not given much thought to the new regiments'' names. Perhaps The Duchess of Ankh's Guards Infantry?"

Vimes knew at that moment he was going to cough up the money for a new Army with good grace. The look on Sybil's face said so.

_But blimey… three hundred million in the bank? And I thought seven mill a year was embarrassing… at least it will serve to keep Rust out of the Palace. And the Barbican's a crumbling old wreck, just over the road. Suggest to Vetinari we knock it down, clear the site, and have a barracks strategically located there, where it's needed? _

Vimes thought a bit more.

_And I remember Wrangle and Mountjoy-Standfast from the Glorious Revolution, when they were much more junior. They seemed like brighter than usual Ruperts.__**(6)**__ Either would run rings around Rust or Eorle._

"And maybe in the fullness of time some sort of Navy." Vetinari was thinking aloud. "The rag-tag of ships we sent to Klatch was frankly an _embarrassment_."

_Take it on the chin, Sam… it's arguably in a far better cause. _

* * *

**(1) **yes, I am drawing from the Monty Python sketch here, about the Pirhana Brothers.

**(2) **see my story _**''Murder most 'Orrible''**_

**(3) **see my stories _**How André Got His Badge Back**_, and _**Bad Hair Day. **_

**(4) **OK, some readers don't like excessive footnotes, especially ones that make the cardinal error of explaining the pune or play on words**… IF YOU ARE BRITISH, YOU ALEADY KNOW AND MAY SKIP THIS. GO BACK TO THE TEXT. SHOO. **

For non-British people: after WW2, surplus population, internal refugees from bomb-devastated cities, were offered the chance to start anew on New Towns, new cities built from scratch in Greenfield sites, or on the nucleus of what previously had been tiny villages. _**Skelmersdale**_ in Lancashire is such a New Town. As is the city of _**Milton Keynes**_, near London. (see famous footnote in _**Good Omens**_ implying the demon Crowley had a hand in its design) _Ilford_ and _Dagenham_ are districts on the very edge of London, which expanded massively to accept an overspill population bombed out of the big city during WW2.

**(5)** See my story _**A Ripping Yarn**_

**(6) **see TerryPratchett's _**Night Watch, **_where these two army officers are characters.


	12. Light Relief

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter twelve**_

_OK, so this is the one you __**really**__ want to read. Trying to oblige. the way i see it, if Terry can plunder LOTR and bring Orcs into the Discworld out of nowhere, I can do the same with other sentient species from Middle-Earth..._

Vimes heard the commotion down in the hall from his office. He sighed, put aside the routine reports he'd been trying to read, then took up his helmet and went downstairs to see what the commotion was.

From the top of the stairs, he took in Sergeant Littlebottom at the desk, who was vainly trying to restore order in a crowd of angry, very angry, Dwarfs and Trolls who were surrounding a woebegone looking… person?... who had a distinct look of lichen and greenery about them. Axes had been drawn by several of the Dwarfs, as the troll officers closed in as a protective ring about the presumed suspect. This was bad. Trolls and Dwarfs facing each other down _inside_ the Yard. If nothing else, it meant lethal sarcasm from Vetinari when he got to hear about it. An angry mob, who looked as if they wanted to lynch a suspect, who for the moment was in protective custody inside a ring of Trolls? It looked like a scene from the Thud board, or what a Thud board might look like if its central pillar were to be less _rocky_ and more _arboreal…_

Vimes could hear a whip cracking in the air from somewhere among the troll officers, which meant only one thing. A well-applied whip could even sting a troll: it wouldn't seriously hurt one, but then, humans recoiled from wasp stings in the same disproportionate way and tended to step away, giving the stinging insect a wide berth. And he just _knew_ the wasp in this case would be about five feet four with striking red hair….

Vimes and Captain Carrot found their way to the potential Koom Valley at about the same time. Carrot was calling for order in Dwarfish, and heeding him, the angry Dwarfs were lowering their weapons and stepping back. The troll officers relaxed a little and lowered their fists and clubs.

Vimes stepped into the gap. He had a bad feeling about this one. People only ever tried to rush the Watch if the suspect was somebody who'd committed a crime so heinous, so shocking, so outside comprehension, that it shocked them to the core and what he'd heard described as _the rough music _took them over. Sex offenders and child killers posed a security problem in Watch custody for this reason, and getting them to the Palace for trial meant deploying disproportionate numbers to escort and safeguard the prisoner through an inevitable angry crowd willing to grab and lynch. At times like this he almost sympathised with the serial killer known as the Marriage Guidance Counsellor, who had taken a more direct and straightforward route to natural justice which ultimately tied up less Watchmen. Even though she now worked for the Guild of Assassins, the Guild having recognised a natural talent. Which brought him back to….

Vimes stood under the natural shelter of the tree – the _tree_? – and said, loudly "What the Hells is happening here? Anyone care to tell me?"

Cheery Littlebottom shifted, unhappily.

"Special Constable Smith-Rhodes made the detention, sir."

Vimes looked around to where one of his more unique Specials was recoiling her whip. _Damn, one day I'll pluck up the courage to tell her that's a non-issue weapon. But not yet. _

Johanna Smith-Rhodes, naturalist and Assassin, looked Vimes in the eye.

"I brought Mr Cedarburns here for his own protection, sir. You might cell it protective custody."

"Mr Cedarburns…"

Vimes looked up the trunk of the tree… _what tree? We've never had one growing indoors in the Yard before…. _His eyes passed from roots that were temporarily making a home in the cracks between the floor tiles. A suspicion of a trunk divided from about halfway down, like legs on a standing figure. Two regular opposing boles ending in things that looked like hands. And up there in the shade of the leaves and branches, a sad-looking face, mournful and old.

"Mr Cedarburns is just in from Lencre, mr Vimes." Johanna said, helpfully. "He is a very rare species in his own right, end like eny newcomer to Enkh-Morpork, he perheps requires _guidance_ on how to behave in this city. We all do when we ere new here."

Vimes nodded. Johanna would be sympathetic; in her own time she had been an immigrant to a strange new place, in her case from Rimwards Howondaland. Assimilating had been difficult for her too. And being a zoologist, she would also have a protective passion for _rare species_ of any sort.

"And Mr Cedarburns possibly inadvertently did something that caused great offence to the Dwarf community. Something that induced them to reach for their axes."

He regarded the scene. The rather _woody_ demeanour of Mr Cedarburns. Axes. A weapon one of whose uses was to gather in and prepare firewood and kindling. A lifeform that to all intents and purposes was a sentient tree. Made out of wood. A suspicion was starting to form.

"Er… what species do you belong to exactly, Mr Cedarburns?" he asked, diffidently.

"I am Ent." said a voice that echoed as if through hollow branches, combined with a susurration of wind in leaves. "I am of the wood. I shepherd the trees."

And you've moved in to Ankh-Morpork." Vimes said. "Where are you residing…"

Vimes got no further.

"_Commander, I must protest!" _

"Oh, shit." said a Dwarf, with weary dread. "It's _her!_"

"Remember, lads, be diplomatic!" said another Dwarf. "Her heart's in the right place…."

_Her brain's on a permanent holiday, though! _muttered somebody in the crowd.

Vimes sighed. He turned to face the newcomer, who was quivering with indignation and righteous anger.

"Ah, miss Partleigh!" he said, as neutrally as he could manage. "What beings you here today?"

Estrella Partleigh was in her late thirties. She dressed in a drab and austere manner, wore no makeup, and her hair was styled into something that might have been a Psyche knot were it to have obliged her by being longer. She glared at him over rimless spectacles, her angular face looking sharp enough to slice Dwarf bread. Unmarried – Vimes uncharitably thought nobody need look too far to see the reasons – her life's vocation was advocating and standing up for Dwarf civic rights in the city, even though in Vimes' opinion the little buggers did perfectly alright on their own and didn't need any advocacy, thank you very much. She was a mainstay of the Campaign for Equal Heights, and was so good at exposing speciesism, heightism and general slurs against the Dwarf community that quite often, people had genuinely not been aware a problem existed and needed to have it pointed out to them in great detail. Which miss Partleigh was always, if not _happy_, then _willing_, to do.

Vimes looked about him. He was aware Johanna Smith-Rhodes was not one of her favourite people. He knew his Assassin Special had a quietly wicked sense of humour and, as always, the pathologically humourless tended to take this as a personal insult. The business with the dwarf chimpanzees had cemented Miss Partleigh's animosity towards Johanna, who among other accomplishments had created and directed the City Zoo, out of the ashes of one of Dibbler's disastrous schemes. **(1)** He knew she had complained at great length to Lord Downey, not having the sense to realise she'd been outclassed and to let the matter lie.

"So what's the concern, Miss Partleigh?" he asked, trying not to let the memory intrude, or he'd have burst out laughing again.

The self-appointed guardian of dwarf rights quivered with indignation; Vimes wondered if there was Maccalariat blood in her. There must be, for somebody to be that unshakably, immovably, self-righteous and absolutely sure of herself.

"That… _thing_.." she extended a quivering forefinger at the Ent, "committed an act of grievous assault on two unsuspecting Dwarfs! Arrest it, Commander! It administered a noxious and foul poison to two unsuspecting Dwarfs and deprived them of a major component of their Dwarfishness! With malice aforethought and in full knowledge of the results!"

"I don't see…." Vimes began. Estrella Partleigh cut him short with a gesture and looked smugly self-satisfied.

"Step forward, gentledwarfs! I know it's an ordeal, but the world _must_ see the outrage done to you!"

Two members of the crowd reluctantly shuffled forward. All conversation ceased and there was the burbling sound of a human Watchman trying hard to suppress a laugh.

They _looked_ like Dwarfs. They had the beards, the horned helmets, the standard uniform… but it looked as if they were wearing clothes very many sizes too small for them. The helmets sat absurdly small on their heads. Their chain mail looked far too tight and restricting. Their ethnic axes looked like children's toys.

"It'll take a bleeding _welder_ to get this chain mail off!" protested one. "I ain't been able to take it off since last Thursday and it ain't half uncomfortable!"

For members of a race where three foot ten is viewed as tall, these were tall dwarfs. Vimes estimated one was touching five feet tall, and the other was at least four foot eight.

"Tell your story, Lars!" miss Partleigh proclaimed.

The shorter of the two tall dwarfs cleared his throat.

"It's like this. Last Thursday, right, we met this Ent here. He'd just arrived in the city and was looking for somewhere to stay, right."

"So out of the kindness of his heart, Lars allowed this…thing…to take root in his garden." Miss Partleigh continued.

"And we had a few of the lads over for some beers, right. And we give one to Mr Cedarburns here. I mean, he poured it over his roots, right, but you've got to make allowances, that's how he drinks."

The rest of the story needed no great explanation. Feeling he had to reciprocate, the Ent had given the two Dwarfs his travelling flask of Ent-brew and both had drunk deeply…

"And we goes to bed and when we wakes up, stone me if we ain't grown a few inches!_ And we ain't stopped bleedin' growing' since!"_

"You see,Commander?" Miss Partleigh said, triumphantly. "That creature has wilfully taken away from two Dwarfs one of the key qualities that makes a Dwarf! He has wantonly and viciously turned them into short humans! I demand justice!"

Vimes groaned. Johanna Smith-Rhodes shook her head and glared at the CEH spokesperson. Captain Carrot stepped forward.

"How, exactly, Miss Partleigh?" he asked, reasonably. "After all, I'm a Dwarf and I'm six foot six."

He smiled down at her. She scowled. Carrot was a walking affront to her notions of dwarfishness. He ticked none of her cherished boxes for Dwarf but was openly accepted as a Dwarf by the community.

"True, that." said a Dwarf in the crowd. "Old Head-banger's one of us, always has been!"

There was cautious agreement and a general softening of hostilities.

"Practicalities first." Carrot said. "These two Dwarfs need assistance. Cheery, go and get the Watch armourer, would you, and tell him to bring his best metal-cutters? We need to get you both out of that chainmail. Look, you can expand it with new rings! Think of it as like letting a coat out! And here's a thought for you both. Mr Cedarburns might have done you a favour, as I know Low King Rhys is recruiting for his Royal Guard. Only the tallest strongest Dwarfs? Good pay, excellent promotion prospects. Tall Dwarfs are hard to come by and the Low King pays a premium for them!"

The two Dwarfs looked at each other and nodded. Things were looking up. Everybody knew the tallest Dwarfs got accelerated promotion in the Low King's service. Rhys was not one to let heightism prejudice his selection of handy personal guards.

"Do I take it you're both prepared to drop any charges?" Vimes asked, seeing an opening. "Well, that's settled, then?" He blinked at Sergeant Littlebottom.

"Cheery, what have you done to your _beard_?"

Cheery Littlebottom stroked her face. She had had both sides of her beard shaven completely back to the jaw, leaving bare skin and only a long almost goatee in the middle. For Dwarf women, it was a very daring beard styling.

"Its called a _Paraquatian_, sir" she said. "A new intimate hairstyling just in.."

Johanna grinned. She'd heard about _Paraquatians_, too. For human women it meant something different…

"Go and get the armourer, Cheery."

"Right away, sir!"

The Dwarfen crowd its impetus gone, was drifting off.

Johanna looked up to Mr Cedarburn.

"I hev clecksed for a colleague to join us." she said, gently. "When it is known you are under the protection of the Guild of Essessins, you should be safer in this town."

"I thank you." said the Ent. "I clearly have a lot to learn about interacting with people."

"Just don't feed them that brew of yours." Vimes advised him. "Are any more of you likely to come here?"

"My Ent-wife and saplings are following." he said. "I said I would try to get a job here and a place to set down roots. They say this city is the place to set down roots."

"Well!" said Estrella Partleigh, in a suppressed fury. "Well!"

Johanna smiled serenely at her.

"You heven't been to see the bonobos lately. The dwarf chimpanzees you so wented me to ecquire for the Zoo."

Without a word, Estrella Partleigh turned and stormed out, her face bright red. Several of her dwarfs meekly followed her. She very nearly bumped into another black-clad Assassin who was hurrying in.

"Well, _manners_!" said Davinia Bellamy, more surprised than offended.

"Ag, Estrella never hed them." said Johanna, shrugging. "Vinnie, come end meet our new friend."

Davinia was the Guild's botany teacher. Blessed with green fingers and a passion for plants, she could nurture _anything_. The Guild employed her because of her ability with the sort of plants and growing green things it found professionally interesting and useful. Sam Vimes scowled. It was her ability to say it with flowers that had drawn the Guild's attention to her in the first place. The fact the floral message, to personally selected clients, had inevitably been _Drop Dead!_ had led to the Watch paying attention to her too. But damn Vetinari had offered her an Angel, hadn't he…**(2)**

"Oh, Johanna! I don't believe it! It's_… you're_ … an _Ent,_ aren't you? I didn't think any of your people were still around!"

"They thought that of Orcs too." rumbled Mr Cedarburns. "But they too persist. We persist."

"My friend here is something of a _tree-hugger_." Johanna said, innocently. "I em sure you will both get on famously! _Kiff_!"

Davinia was walking around, admiring the Ent from all angles.

"I have a big garden" she said. "You can stay there until you get settled. And I really want to study you!"

"Immediate problem solved, mr Vimes." Johanna said, saluting him. " End I believe Mr Flowerdew at Hide Park was petitioning the Petrician ebout intruders stealing the trees in the woods there, for firewood. A _Shepherd of the Trees_ working for the Perks Depertment might deter theft of wood?"

"I'll put it to Vetinari." Vimes said, seeing the logic.

**_Better two-thirds of a story than none at all - ferociously busy right now, but I wil come back with the explanation of how Johanna Smith- Rhodes finessed Estella Partleiegh and the Campaign for Equal Heights using a cage full of dwarf chimpanzees..._**

* * *

**(1) **See my story _**Nature Studies**_**. **

**(2) **See my story _**Murder Most 'Orrible**_


	13. Sonky Loosechange

_**The Civilian Assistant, Chapter thirteen**_

_I get a persistent and most gratifying trickle of (mainly positive) reviews from fans. Leaving aside discussions concerning my attitude to religion – and I repeat, if you're coming in through the door marked "Anthony Crowley" into the "Good Omens" continuum, then a sceptical attitude comes with the turf – the vast majority of them are about this fanfic. And they're 100% positive. And the sheer number of people calling for "more", and the number of author alerts this tale evokes from those who want more… seems to grow by the day. What can I say? _

_OK, so this is the one you __**really**__ want to read. Trying to oblige. A certain musical genre gets panned here. If you like Johnny Cash, Kenny Rodgers and Tammy Wynette, move along, please, nothing to see.._

As the crowd inside the Watch building was diplomatically but firmly ushered out, Vimes watched as the newly-arrived Ent, Mr Cedarburns, was moved to the loading bay at the rear of the building, and into an open cart, where he sat, as stiffly and rigidly as only an Ent can manage. He would be under light guard all the way to his destination, but as he now wore a protective notice – _hung_ on, rather than _nailed_ on – to proclaim he was under the personal care and protection of the Assassins' Guild, he didn't think there'd be trouble from even the most rabid of anti-Ent dwarfs. All Dwarfs could read, after all, and besides, he was going to live in a teaching Assassin's back garden. _Nobody _broke into an Assassin's house, and least of all into an Assassin's garden where the border plants had been carefully selected to fight back against anyone hopping in over the garden fence with theft in mind. Vimes sighed. In most city properties blessed with any sort of garden, anti-theft precautions might take the form of thick gravel paths on which silent movement was impossible, or normally inhospitably spiky plants growing underneath the windows. Davinia Bellamy took a more pro-active point of view about blending a beautiful garden with home security. It meant her husband and sons had to think twice about taking short-cuts if they ever forgot their front-door keys, but it was a small price to pay for peace of mind. And as she was merely defending her home with some interestingly innovative forms of security**(1)**1, the Watch couldn't touch her. Damn.

And now she had an Ent as house-guest….

Vimes looked up into the impassive stony face of Sergeant Detritus.

"What do your people know about Ents, Detritus?" he asked, curiously. The more he knew about a new species in town - specifically, what sort of trouble it could make for the Watch if it were so inclined – the better..

" Der living _oograhah,_ sir?" said Detritus. "We live with it, sir. We careful to give it no trouble and it give us none. Them roots, they is _lethal_! A normal tree, sir, it put down roots. Over many-lot of years, der tree grow, der roots, they can split rock. An Ent, it can do der same to a troll in time it take to _blink_. And when you see troll get ripped apart by _oograh_, you give dat oograh lotsa respect and find out what it need to keep it happy!"**(2)**2

Vimes digested this.

"Cheery?" he asked. His Dwarf sergeant grimaced.

"In a mine, sir, you need lots of wood. Pit-props and so on. Not many people mine in mountains where Ents live. It gets a bit off-putting if the tree you've just worked out is worth two hundred pit props and a few axe-shafts wakes up and realises _you're_ the reason why his forest has been getting a bit smaller lately. Er."

Vimes saw the point of this. Animosity between Dwarfs and Ents must be as deep as that between Dwarfs and Trolls.

"Yet that Ent was taken in by city Dwarfs?" he questioned.

Cheery shrugged.

"New city, new beginnings, sir." she said. "Like with trolls. You've got to make allowances, be friendly. Leave the old ways at home."

Vimes grinned approval.

"And Angua told me once, sir, it can really put off a werewolf from, er, _marking its territory_, if the tree you're, er, _marking_, bends over and asks if you can aim a little further down and in among the roots, where he can pick up the nutrients better. Apparently Ents don't take it as an insult as urine contains so many natural plant-nutrients. It's like a free dinner. Er."

"Tell me, what exactly do Ents _do_ to people they don't like?" Vimes asked. He'd heard old stories, late at night. Time to clear up rumour.

"Well, sir, in the old Dark War. We know there was a battle, in Überwald. An unstoppable army of Orcs had been marching on, driving everything before it. Ents were part of the defending army at the last stand battle. You know, the one the forces of Good should never ever lose. And they were marshalling something else, an army of trees. Well, more than trees. Some people say those half-alive trees are what Ents eventually become. "

"Zombie trees." Vimes said, flatly. The day got better and better. Cheery cleared her throat, nervously.

"Legend has it they're possessed of an insane hatred for anything meat-or-silicon based. As only a cellulose-based life form can hate. Er. Personally, I think anything suddenly awoken from a deep sleep in the heart of a forest can get a bit grumpy. Nobody's at their best first thing in a morning."

"Like very old trolls, sir" Detritus added. "When you get der urge to phil-os-o-phise. Or do der maths."

"Anyway, nobody saw clearly what happened next after all the Ents rolled over them, and the legends vary, but fifteen thousand horribly beweaponed killing Orcs were there one minute, and gone the next. Just a neat stack of empty armour and weapons and what looked like a compost heap. Legend has it nothing grew on that field ever again, but that's legend. Local farmers will tell you the crop yield is _amazing_… Mr Modo, the University gardener, claims the foundation of the University compost heaps are a couple of wagon loads of soil from that battlefield, and have you _seen _the way things grow there?"

"Dey say dis Wizard was quick to grab der credit for der victory." Detritus added. "But then, dat just wizards for you!"

"Instant compost." murmured Vimes. "Well, at least it seems to clear up why something as apparently unstoppable as an army of Orcs got stopped. We had that bugger Nutt a year or two ago. He was reasonable enough, although I'd not like to take on a less reasonable one. What's he doing now?"

"Rounding up and civilising the remnant of his people, sir." said Cheery.

"We hope." Said Vimes, watching the wagon pull out. As he turned, there was a muted _harrumph_ from behind him.

"Ah, Miss Maccalariat." he said, as smoothly as possible.

He noticed a strange thing about his Civilian Assistant. She appeared to be trying her very hardest to show diffidence, respect, even a certain contrition. He wondered what she'd done to provoke this, as he regarded her, head slightly bowed and clutching an unspeakable handkerchief between both hands.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Maccalariat?" he prompted.

She was uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Commander Vimes, I really feel I must _apologise_." she said.

Vimes blinked. This was new and uncharted territory. He was unsure as t how to proceed, and took refuge in the policeman's ally, the unreadable poker face.

"Go on." he said, hoping she'd make things clear. He also noted that Carrot, Cheery and Detritus had diplomatically moved on.

"I understand Miss Partleigh recently caused a _commotion_ for you. On behalf of the family, I must apologise for her unseemly behaviour. The problem is that she is only half-Maccalariat. Estrella can be sensible, but her father's side of the family were engaged in unseemly politics and rabble-rousing."

She sighed, agitated. Vimes tried to reasureher.

"No, please, let me finish, Commander! My cousin Hexaflurazine allowed herself to be taken in by the political agitator, Roderick Partleigh, a man who was a firebrand in various Widdershinist groups. We disapproved of the liaison, of course, most strongly so. Hexie became secretary to various far-Widdershinist political groups, and while as a family we did what we could for Estrella, I'm afraid she became what she became. And now she has inconvenienced _you_. I am so deeply sorry and I feel I must apologise! I shall speak to Estrella when I have a spare moment."

"Think nothing of…" began Vimes. But Miss Maccalariat had abruptly turned and left, clutching at her foul hankie, the on that usually lived up her sleeve.

Vimes sorted some useful bits of intelligence into his mental filing system – Estrella Partleigh being part-Maccalariat explained many things, a Maccalariat with politics - and wondered about re-opening the file on Roderick Partleigh, a political agitator who had apparently committed suicide by advocating the downfall of the Patrician and his replacement by an elected People's Committee headed by a General Secretary. His disappearance had been put down to suicide by Dark Clerk, but now Vimes wondered if his wife's family might have had a role in it. _Suicide By Maccalariat…._

He shrugged. It had been a busy few days. But it had all quietened down now. Just tidy up the last bits of office work, offer the Maccalariat an hour or two's work on her query slips so that she might hold onto the gratifying notion that she owed him a favour, then home to the Manor by four and have an evening in with Sybil and Young Sam. Carrot could take over the routine command for a spell. _Perfect._

_**Ramkin Manor, eight p.m, the same day.**_

"So there's been a riot at the Tanty." Vimes grated. "Another riot. A _real _riot, this time."

"I'm afraid so, sir." Carrot agreed. "All prison officers recalled, although they've somehow forgotten to clacks _their _Maccalariat, who as you know is on holiday in Quirm…"

"Best to leave her on her holiday in peace." Vimes agreed. "And Peter Bellamy took one look at the mess, and asked for Watch assistance."

"Yes, sir. Apparently he wanted a quiet night in with Davinia and the boys, and he wasn't best pleased either…"

Vimes looked round at Sybil and Young Sam.

"The penalty of being in charge, Carrot." he said, philosophically.

"Of course, Sam, you must go." Sybil said. "I know Peter will have sealed things down tightly, but there's always the chance some of them might have taken opportunity of the confusion to escape."

Vimes grimaced.

"Almost certainly so, dear. But Peter Bellamy is a very good prison officer. He'll be looking out for it and he'll give me a list as soon as he's been able to do a full roll-call. Hopefully it won't be too many."

Vimes did not add that it was more than likely any gaps in a roll-call of prisoners would be accounted for by corpses, as old animosities were aired in the confusion. He hoped the _untouchable_ prisoners, the ones viewed as human debris even by the other cons, had all had the sense to run for it and get out once a really bad riot started. In his time, Vimes had sent down Watchmen for taking bribes or passing information on to criminal bosses. At least one hated former screw had been sent down by Vetinari. And then there were the nonces… Vimes held no sympathy for men who had committed the more loathsome and despicable crimes, especially where children were involved. But his Inner Policeman reminded him that not even they merited a death sentence – well, if Vetinari had not seen fit to hand one down, they didn't - , and certainly not the short, terrifying and informal one their fellow cons would inflict. And besides, _we_ make and uphold the law. Not other criminals. That was a strong point with Vimes, especially at the bad times when confronted with a certain sort of offender and evidence of his crime. Vimes made sure that somebody like Carrot or Detritus was near, whenever he felt that old, seductive, temptation to make the Disc a cleaner place. Because give into it once, and then you'd ceased to be a copper and you'd joined the bloody Assassins.

He put his helmet on. He assured Sybil he'd be back soon. He hugged Young Sam, and asked if Willikins could be spared work, as his particular Special Constable skills might be needed here.

"Brief me, Carrot?" he requested, as they left. "They had their _according-to-guild-charter_ riot a few days ago, didn't they? So something pretty provocative must have happened for them to have a real one, a real blood-and-guts riot so soon afterwards."

Carrot looked resolute.

"That's a bit unclear at this stage of the investigation, sir." He said. "All we know for sure is that the cons were assembling in the main mess-hall for the concert, and then things started getting nasty."

"Concert?"

"Some sort of singer, sir. Accompanies himself on guitar and mouth-organ."

"Oh. _That _sort of singer." Vimes said, flatly. Willikins, who was accompanying them as Special Constable and Vimes' discreet bodyguard, cleared his throat.

"I am, vouchsafed, sir, that the gentleman in question is a performer in the Country and Widdershins vernacular." He offered. "It's very big in Aceria and the Shires, I am given to believe."

"Country and Widdershins." Vimes mused. He'd seen references to a musical style called C&W in the papers and club flyers. It apparently had roots in Aceria, a country that was yet another of Ankh-Morpork's interesting ex-colonies.

Willikins went on. "According to some of the younger and more, er, _with-it_, staff, Country and Widdershins music covers all aspects of the human condition as it is known in Aceria. Popular themes for the songs involve marriage, marital breakdowns, the size and quality of one's coach, or failing that, one's horse and cart, lachrymose wailings about the positive qualities of one's sadly deceased maternal parent, the agrarian labour experience, the perils of strong drink, and of course, _imprisonment_."

Vimes worked this all out.

"Marriage, divorce, coaches, your poor dead mother, working on a farm, getting pissed and going to prison?"

"Indeed so, sir. I had occasion to reprimand an under-parlourmaid for singing such songs over- loudly as she went about her duties this morning. With apologies for my poor vocal reproduction:

_Since they took my momma off to prison,_

_Down on the farm, mah ex-wife ain't been missed;_

_And then they let my momma out the jailhouse – _

_She crashed the godsdamn coach 'cos she got pissed! _

It had a jaunty, upbeat and somehow discordant feel to it. Vimes appreciated his butler's attempt at an Acerian accent.

"And that's what prisoners get by way of _entertainment_, is it? No wonder they… come on, let's sort it out."

Vimes met Peter Bellamy in the Tanty courtyard for an informal briefing. Prison officers had closed down those parts of the jail they still controlled, and the streets outside were under Watch lockdown against escapes. Several enterprising cons had tried, one shinning down a bedsheet –rope straight into the waiting arms of a Street watch patrol. Vimes noted a woebegone and terrified-looking group of prisoners huddled in the gateway arch for safety.

"The nonces." Bellamy explained. "Nowhere to run to, because in there they're _dead,_ and out there (he indicated the street) they're _lynched._ Nothing moves quicker round here than a sex offender in a prison riot. We can afford to leave them unattended, as they're not going anywhere much, apart from back to their cells later."

Vimes, who had recognised several faces, accepted the logic of this. He glared at the huddle of wretched and demoralised prisoners. No problems there. Then he looked back to Bellamy.

"Bellyster's missing." he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Yes." said Peter Bellamy, curtly. "The former prison officer Gaylord Bellyster did not make it to safety when the riot commenced. Which means he's in there somewhere."

Vimes, Carrot and Bellamy shared an appalled look. Vimes was not an unfair man. He'd sack a Watchman and drag him in front of the Patrician if grift or bribery or corruption applied. But as far as he was concerned, it generally ended there with a sentence of imprisonment. And he knew ex-Watchmen in prison ranked only slightly above the sort of sinister social outcast who tried to lure little girls with sweeties or promises of puppies. But on a night like this, he'd still have moved Heaven or Hell to secure an ex-Watchman in prison who faced a nasty death at the hands of other cons… mainly because it was the Law they had sworn to uphold and defend. But partly because the disgraced copper had been a buddy once, and might even have been a _good_ cop, once, before falling to temptation…

And he could see something of the same in Peter Bellamy's eyes. Bellyster might have been a bully and a sadist who made life hell for cons and lower-ranking officers alike. He might pose an ongoing security risk as a target for malice and reprisals. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Peter Bellamy to allow a difficult situation to conveniently resolve itself to the benefit of all. But Bellamy wasn't that sort of prison officer. Just as Vimes wasn't that sort of copper. He could see both the ex-Watchmen currently incarcerated here were safe, amongst the other miserable specimens huddled in the gateway. Good; he owed them no residual duty, and he knew other Watchmen had clocked them too. They would not try to escape. But _Bellyster…_

"He's still alive. Just." said Bellamy. "Bushyhead's making sure of that. Not out of kindness, I hasten to add. Joe's got his pride too, and he's far-sighted enough to want some sort of bargaining counter against the time we re-assert control."

"But we still want him out of there. Otherwise, when Vetinari has his inquiry, it won't look good."

"Agreed. And this is just the time for other cons to challenge Joe's authority as Top Dog. We know he's got four officers locked up as hostages. For their own safety, this time. He got a message out to us to say he's thrown Bellyster in with them, for his own safety, and he hopes they won't hold it against him when it's all over."

Vimes considered this. Joe Lifer" Bushyhead was the head of the Guild of Lags and Prisoners and was, so far, the undisputed Top Dog convict. Peter Bellamy, a prison officer who respected certain realities, sometimes unofficially conferred with him over prospective changes and alterations to prison routine.

"So what started all this?" Captain Carrot asked. "As prison riots go, this is an ugly one!"

Bellamy sighed.

"We've got a new junior officer here. He was put in charge of convict morale and entertainment. This is my fault, as I should have seen it coming, but he was approached by the management of an upcoming singing star who has apparently done morale-boosting concerts in prisons across the Disc…"

The story fitted in neatly. Vimes listened in appalled fascination.

Wallace "Sonky" Loosechange the Third was something of a star in the rarefied world of Country And Widdershins music. Originally trained as a Minstrel at the Fools' Guild, Sonky Loosechange had visited faraway Aceria and fallen in love with a form of music that in its way was as fossilised, time-honoured and set in its ways as anything he'd studied as a would-be Troubadour at the Guild. Casting aside his motley and lute, he had picked up one of those twangy steel guitars and got to grips with a whole new musical vernacular, slap _mah thigh, y'awl,_ and had brought C&W from its native land, along with attendant horrors like _line-dancing_, and great big cowboy hats with horns in, together with what might once have been peasant plainclothes, but festooned with sequins and Ankhstones.

And the songs. Ye Gods, _the songs_. He'd been a hit in Ankh-Morpork, where anything new and utterly tasteless is guaranteed its five minutes of fame and some really entertainment-starved people had taken to Acerian line-dancing like ducks to water.

But Sonky Loosechange had also taken it into his head to perform Good Works.

This meant regular pro-bono concerts in prisons to bring a little happiness to the lives of all you good folk in jail, y'awl.

Having convinced an inexperienced junior officer to let him do a gig in the Tanty, on a night where the prison governor Dame Amorine Maccalariat was on leave and unavailable, and her deputy Peter Bellamy was intent on spending a quiet night in with his family, trouble was almost inevitable.

"We got him out." Bellamy said, grimly. "Just. He's in the Lady Sybil now. The first operation where Blert Wheeldown had to come in with a set of tools and advise."

"Ouch." said Vimes.

"Mr Wheeldown did say he'd got almost all the pieces and should be able to rebuild the guitar, sir." Carrot said, helpfully. "And Doctor Lawn said the harmonica should work its own war out within a few days."

"Get someone down there to book him, would you, Carrot? Being Bloody Stupid, Provoking A Riot, and Attempted Suicide. And they're just for _starters_".

Bellamy had found a junior officer who had witnessed the concert and escaped afterwards. In between very nervous finger-shaking drags on a cigarette, he explained.

"Oh, they liked _some_ of the songs, sir. The one about the worker in a coach factory who smuggled out all the bits and built his coach One Piece At A Time, for instance. Then in the last verse, got arrested by factory security with a horse up his jacket. Sent to prison.

"And the one about being a Boy Named Doris, which didn't quite scan, but it turns out his father called him that to toughen him up. Father and son slug it out in the street, get arrested for drunken affray and mutual GBH, sent to prison. Not a bad tune.

Then it got ugly with the one about the crippled war veteran whose wife, er, went out as an amateur seamstress of a night, while he was stuck in his wheelchair. Not the sort of thing you sing to a packed hall of prisoners who are all worried about what their wife's up to while they're in side. That sort of thing causes _strife,_ and it's just bad luck Ruby is a very popular name among con's wives. Catchy tune, though.

_It wasn't me who started that ol'Pseudopolitanian war…..But I was proud to serve Lord Rust as my patriotic chore…_

"Anyway, some of the cons are war vets who never really _adjusted_ afterwards, and a line like _If I could move I'd get my crossbow, put her in the ground! _awoke bad memories for Cruncher Ferris, who as we know, _did…. "_

"So, a tough audience?" Vimes inquired. The junior officer winced.

"You could say that, sir! He did one about DEE, EYE, VEE, OH, ARSE, EE, EE, which took a bit of time to work out, and in my opinion, a song about a wife wanting to divorce her husband wasn't tactful either, and then he _really _blew it with the song about being in prison. In my opinion, sir, a downright libel! We don't treat prisoners like _that,_ it just isn't _done_, not since Bellyster!

_Oh Tanty, I hate every inch of you; you've cut me and you've scarred me through and through…"_

The officer shook his head.

"_Oh Tanty, may you burn in hell; may your walls fall down and may I live to tell; May all the world forget you ever stood; And may all the world regret you did no good!_

I mean, that's _libel_, is that! And one of the cons stood up and said _I remember this bugger did exactly the same song in the Chirm Bridewell, only he changed the prison name!_

And somebody else says _Hold on, this ain't a bad nick, and since Mr Bellamy took over it's got better, and since Bellyster went the screws have got decent! He's taking the piss, he is!"_

"And that's how the riot started." Vimes said, flatly. "The cons were just defending the good name of their nick and their home."

Bellamy nodded.

"Now we've just got to persuade them to end it, go peacefully to their cells, tell us where the bodies are, and I hope there aren't many, and release the hostages."

"Looks like we'll be here all night, then." Vimes agreed. "But first I want an idea where the hostages are and whether a small hard squad can get in and liberate them before they're dead. Buggy? Arthur? Job for you both."

As his Gnome and Feegle officers responded to the call, Vimes grinned. _Insert them stealthily. Let them raise the maximum degree of fear and confusion once inside. And hopefully they'll get the hostages out. Including bloody Bellyster, who had better be appreciative and thankful… then with the ringleaders down, we'll threaten the rest with Her Dameness. That worked last time. _

Vimes was happy. This was policing. His life.

* * *

**(1)** Leap over the garden fence with a jemmy and a swag-bag, and the fact your feet have just crushed a lot of pleasingly aromatic leaves belonging to the Diueretic Heather of Hyperllamedos is only the _start_ of your woes. Lancre Armour-Piercing Thistles will soon add to them.

**(2) **See J.R.R. Tolkein, who asserted that Trolls were made in evil counterfeit of Ents just as Orcs are the evil distortion of elves. Somewhere in LOTR, there's a passage about how a Troll is no match for an Ent in combat, a the Ent will concentrate the year-upon-year action of roots on stone into a few terminally eye-watering seconds for the luckless troll.

Any musically literate reader should be able to identify the Country and Western standards I have had "Sonky Loosechange" pay at his Live in the Tanty (just about) gig...

they're all available on You-Tube, anyway.


	14. At the sign of the

_**The Civilian Assistant 14: Two riots**_

_Going back to the {{Your Mother Is A Great Big Hippo!}} moment where a rogue computer glitch caused me to lose my only copy of a nearly-completed chapter of the much-acclaimed masterwork. After several abortive attempts to restore it, I lost heart and got on with other things. Now I think the time is right to have another bash, bite the crossbow bolt _**(1)**_, and restore the lost chapter from the corner of L-Space in which it skulked off to hide. If necessary I will consult HEX and the Reader In Invisible Writings for guidance. _

_This draws on incidental information in the newly-published **The Compleat Ankh-Morpork**, that indispensable guide to the City and the delights to be found therein. One piece of incidental information DESERVED a fanfic. Alert readers will spot a cross-over with another work of imaginative fiction. In my defence, I will say that Terry Pratchett started it by tweaking the collective nose of the lawyers of the Estate of J.R.R, Tolkein, a force for Lawful Evil which is worse and more implacable than the Auditors. Thank you._

Sam Vimes moved carefully amidst the wreckage, which was comprehensive and spread liberally out into the street. Upturned and splintered tables, shredded tablecloths, torn doilies, and the sad shards of what had once been the finest Quirmian Bone Agatea** (5)** were everywhere. A much-punctured tea urn hissed steam and dribbled tannic-coloured fluid everywhere. The big window was shattered, with one or two of those olde-worlde panes that look like bottle-bottom spectacle lenses grimly holding on at the margins.

Vimes shook his head.

"two bloody big riots in a day." he said, grimly. "I mean, the first one was an accident waiting to happen, I'll grant you, but _this_? Here?"

The Prancing Pony Tea Rooms was a sedate establishment on the upmarket Ankh side of the city, just off King's Way and adjacent to the main Deosil Gate, the principal road to the Shires and Quirm. Had Vimes been asked to list the ten or so locations in the city that were least likely to require Watch intervention, this would have been pretty near the top of the list. It was a _genteel_ place, for one thing. _Maccalariats_ took tea here, safe in the knowledge that very little would happen that they could disapprove of. Vimes picked up the notice that had hung on the door. It was torn and battered, but still readable as

_NO HERGENIANS!_

_NO TRAVELLERS! (Coach parties welcome. Parking for coaches at rear. NB – by Coaches we mean genteel travellers from the Respectable social classes. Omnibuses and foot travellers from outside the City will not be served.)_

_NO HOWONDALANDIANS of either skin colour! We do not discriminate by race – only by nationality._

_NO TROLLS!_

_NO DWARFS!_

_NO UNDEAD! (except the better class of vampire.)_

Reading it, Vimes wondered if they served anyone at all. He also noted the bit about No Howondalandians, and wished he'd thought to send Special Constables Smith-Rhodes and N'Kweze to investigate news of a disturbance. Still, at least Precious was here. She was looming over those four detainees like a flesh-built troll, with a look on her face that said _peckish_ was definitely an option. Wisely, the little buggers weren't giving her any lip, not even the sarky one with the vaguely Hergenian accent. That little sod seemed too tricky for his own good.

Madame JocelynCéréalorge- Buerreteigne, the Proprietress, was flapping around in the background, bemoaning the wreckage of her lovely tea-rooms, and stridently demanding who was going to _pay_ for all this _damage_?

Vimes absently noted that her Quirmian accent was every bit as mobile as Doreen von Winking's Überwaldean, and tended to slip back into Morporkian at times of stress, just like Doreen's. He felt there was no point in reminding her they were the same age and he'd seen the then Joyce Butterburr around Cockbill Street as a child. Just as he'd known Doreen as a child. He wondered if she'd got the notion to reinvent herself from Doreen; they'd been friends as girls. He felt there was no point adding to her woes right now. **(6)**

"What's the reading, Victor?" he asked. Detective-Sergeant Victor Tugelbend, the one Watch wizard, was consulting a thaumometer with a worried look on his face.

"Not sure, sir. But my gut feeling is that it's a borderline Code Twenty-Three. I've used the omniscope link to consult Professor Stibbons at the Uni. He's got HEX looking into it. What the perpetrators say all points to a breakdown in the wall of reality and a leakage from another dimension."

Vimes groaned. A Code Twenty-Three was a psychic, magical or dimensional disturbance which he was usually perfectly happy to hand over to the Wizards. It was their jurisdiction, after all. Tugelbend, a man who had eventually arrived in the Watch as the last resting place for misfits of all kinds, was useful as his link man to the University.

"Those little sods with the hairy feet might not be pretty, but they don't look like Dungeon Dimension things." Vimes observed.

Tugelbend grinned.

"Not Dungeon Dimensions, these." he corrected his boss. "But quite probably arrived from a different dimension of space-time. They're what Ponder Stibbons would call an _anomaly_. They're only as tall as Dwarfs. But they're not dwarfs. They're clean-shaven and they look like scaled-down people. Except for the bare hairy feet."

"I _told_ you." said the short fat one. His accent was pure Shires. "We're halflings. Not dwarves. Not Men. _Halflings_."**(7)**

Vimes turned to him.

"But your friend is clearly human."

He nodded over to the fifth detainee, who was leaning on a side wall of the Prancing Pony, handcuffed and silent, hunched in his cloak. He had been politely disarmed, against his protests, and his sword had been discovered to be broken. There was still enough of a blade attached to the hilt to make it dangerous, though.

"Mr... Arathornsson. That's a Dwarf name if ever I head one. But you're human. Brought up by Dwarfs, were you, sir?"

There was something disconcertingly Carrot-like about him, Vimes noted. If it wasn't for the fact he'd just aided and abetted smashing up the tea-rooms – according to their story, nine thugs in black had burst in looking for them, but had conveniently melted away after the fight - then he might have considered offering him a Watch position. He'd told some sort of story about patrolling the borders keeping things safe. Vimes gathered these Rangers were a sort of rural Watch. Funny he'd never heard of them before...

"No, no, no. It's Aragorn, son of Arathorn.." the man repeated, patiently.

"Which is what I said, Mr Arathornsson." said Vimes.

"And while I respect Dwarfs, some of my best friends are dwarfs..."

Vimes had heard _that_ line before. He wondered if the next sentence was going to be a prejudice or a sizeist joke.

"I was actually brought up by _Elves_!" Arathornsson repeated. He sounded like being brought up by Elves was something to be _proud_ of...

"Right. So let's get this straight, gentlemen. You set out from the Shires..."

"_The _Shire!" the halflings corrected him.

"You set out from the Shire on a quest. With this Ring. Which your uncle, Mr Baggins, got from some bloody Dwarfs. On the say-so of a wizard, you have to get this Dwarf-forged Ring to the place where it was made so as to destroy it."

"Makes a sort of sense." agreed Tugelbend. "There's nobody like a Dwarf for forging a Ring."

"Indeed. And you said you entered an old mysterious forest. Where time and space got mixed up. You met this shady character in there called Bombadil and his lady. Sounds like a couple of old hippie drop-outs to me. Did he give you anything unusual to smoke? No, don't answer that. Mr Took here..." Vimes indicated the one who was too clever for his own good, "And Mr Brandybuck said something incriminating about _mushrooms. _That you admitted to stealing en route. This gets better and better, doesn't it? And then you came _out_ of the Old Forest, and you arrived on a road which led you to this city. Sounds like the sort of vicious joke Elves would play, to me. You spent a night with two Elves, or as near as, and they send you right out of your own plane of reality. Typical. You then meet a Hero who is as confused as you are."

He nodded towards Aragorn. Vimes did not like Heroes on principle. Cocky bastards. They were dying out now and it was rare to see young ones. But they could still cause trouble in the city. "Who doesn't look a day over twenty-five but claims to be seventy. Found the elixir of eternal youth, did you, Mr Arathornsson?"

"I told you. We Numenoreans live long. And it's _Son of Arathorn_!"

"So you said. And the only character references you can provide are from bloody _Elves_. Which is like Norris, the Eyeball-Eating Maniac of Quirm, citing Carcer the Bastard as somebody who can vouch for his being a respectable citizen of good standing in the community. Which, if the community consists of sociopathic sadistic maniacs, is probably correct."

Vimes shook his head.

"You decide to stop for a cup of tea and a snack to get your bearings. You come in here because you were acting on good information that you'd meet this bloody Wizard at the sign of the Prancing Pony."

"Bree's a _lot_ bigger than I thought it would be." Frodo Baggins said, wonderingly.

Tthat sloppy smelly Quirmian cheese? Never trust a cheese you can eat with a spoon." said Vimes. Lady Sybil insisted on putting soft Quirmian cheeses on the cheeseboard. This unsettled Sam, who preferred the sort of cheese you could only cut with a poleaxe. "Sergeant Tugelbend, did you check with the University?"

Yes, sir." said Victor. "Professor Stibbons said that as far as he can ascertain, there's never been a wizard on the rolls called Gandalf the Grey, or Mithrandir, although there was a Dwarf wizard called Tharkun. apparently a Balgrog got him. They do, however, have a Granpone the Grey. something to do with the state of his laundry, apparently."

Vimes nodded.

"Which blows a hole in your story. And you say your uncle, who first got this Ring, was recruited on account of his prowess as a _Thief_?" He grinned, humourlessly. "And it runs in the family? Dear me. Dear, dear, me. Unlicenced Thieves in this city. you're lucky we got you first!"

He shook his head.

"and so you arrived in our dear City. Which for some reason you have mistaken for a place called Brie, or more accurately, to a sloppy oozing smelly Quirmian cheese, maggots and weevils can be provided according to taste or preference. That's good observation, anyway!

"And we were warned the gate guard would be a bastard." said Merry. "But that old fat sergeant who let us in couldn't have been more helpful. Even gave us directions and everything!"

_I'll have a quiet word with Fred Colon later, _Vimes thought. _See if he clocked these nine thugs in black riding in. They'd have been hard to miss. _

"And just as Mrs Butterburr ..."

"It's _Buerreteigne,_ Commander Vimes!" she corrected him.

"Just as... the proprietor... was telling you to leave because she didn't approve of unhygienic bare feet in her premises, these nine thugs in black showed up demanding the Ring. There was a Hell of a fight, then they conveniently disappeared."

"Sir, the thaumometer readings suggest a malign incursion was present, a serious one, but it was returned to its dimension of origin. The readings suggest the Universe partially readjusted itself and sent them back to their universe of origin. HEX concurs." Tugelbend said, hurriedly, consulting the omniscope fragment he carried.

Vimes nodded.

"So you're meant to take the ring to..."

"Mount Doom." said Frodo. "This is apparently located in the smelliest, darkest, most polluted and barren plac on Middle-Earth, surrounded by Trolls and loathsome venal semi-sentient creatures of the worst kind. Orcs."

"And so you arrive in Ankh-Morpork." Vimes concluded. Makes sense. Although the one Orc I've met wasn't a bad sort. Educated. Civilised."

The five prisoners looked at each other, puzzled.

"Sir, hasn't Evil Harry Dread diversified into a foundry business creating artefacts and gadgets for the would-be Dark Lord?" Precious Jolson asked. "The Mount Doom Works and Foundry Company Limited, over on Morgoth Road in New Brickfields?"

"You might be onto something there, Precious. Harry Dread's working with Professor Hix from the University, isn't he? If they've stirred something up between them that's caused all this, I'm having them. Well, it sounds as if the hurry-up wagon's arrived. Load 'em up, book 'em, get 'em into the cells. And if they get out of the cells, they can go see Harry. What's _he_ up to?"

Incredibly, the quiet halfling, Baggins, had slipped a ring onto his finger and had stood up and was walking to the door. Precious reached out, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and lifted him off the ground. The halfling looked consternated that he'd been seen. He took a gold ring off his finger, lifted it to his ear, and shook it, baffled.

"Dwarfs told you it'd make you invisible or something, did they?" Vimes inquired. "Looks like they've sold you a dud. As per."

"Maybe it _is_ a magical ring on his world, Mr Vimes." Victor Tugelbend said. "But the magic it runs on doesn't work in this world. No reason for it to, if they all belong in a different place."

"In which case they might just vaporise and return to their world. Apart from a wrecked tearoom, problem solved, no paperwork. Good. Get 'em in the wagon, Precious. You too, Arathornsson."

As the five were hustled out, Madame JocelynCéréalorge- Buerreteigne turned to Vimes. She had recovered something of her usual composure.

"Your Grace." she said. "About my wrecked tearoom. I believe in your capacity of Duke of Ankh, you are proposing radical reform of the landlord-tenant relationship in that you concede the landlord is responsible for repairs to the property owned by the tenant?"

"Yes..." Vimes said, slowly grasping what was going to come next.

She beamed.

"Jolly good." she said. "As I believe yourself and Her Grace the Duchess own this property and we pay our rent to the Ramkin estate, I estimate the damage stands at four thousand dollars?"

He sighed. Vimes knew when to fold on a bad hand.

"Send me the bills."

"Spoken like a true Duke, your Grace!"

Vimes went out into the street. He lit a cigar, watching the hurry-up wagon recede into the distance. A snatch of song faded with it. Something about a Lady Elderbreath. It was hard to make out. He turned to Tugelbend.

"Victor, what's the status on the other bit of business today?"

Tugelbend consulted the omniscope. He had a brief conversation with Despatch at Pseudopolis Yard. Vimes felt appreciative of new technomancy. The omniscopes could tune into the Yard and communicate instantly over distances. He wanted every Watch patrol to have access to one. It was worth the money. The few currently available were issued to Air Police and senior officers. Vimes had taken time to be convinced that magic had some valid uses.

"Captain Carrot's up at the Palace explaining things to Lord Vetinari. Captain Angua's covering the clean-up on Brewer Street. Mr Goatberger is in custody, we're not sure what to charge him with yet, other than Being Bloody Stupid. All the male troll officers who suddenly went on grandmothers' funerals this morning have reported in for duty. Miss Maccalariat is still indisposed, but Inspector Pessimal is trying to revive her. He reports he still can't get the manuscript out of her hands, despite it being critical evidence. And Sergeant Colon is recovering at the Lady Sybil after being hit by a falling gate at Deosil. Er..."

"What happened to Fred?"

"Apparently those nine horsemen in black didn't bother waiting for the gate to open. They must have used some sort of magic to blow it down. Fred got off lightly, all things considered, just concussion and a couple of cracked ribs."

Vimes considered this.

"Just as well they seem to have gone, then. Funny how Men in Black always seem to turn up after a Code Twenty-Three, isn't it?"

"We've never quite been able to work that out either, sir. Some of the finest minds at the University are puzzled by it."

_And here ends Part One, with an enigmatic few words on the nature of the Other Riot. What caused Miss Maccalariat to be indisposed? Why have all the trolls taken a Grandmother's Funeral? What is the nature of the mysterious manuscript and what do Goatbergers' Publishers have to do with it?_

_Stay tuned..._

_Alert readers will note I'm covering the same ground as aoteoran in the magnificent fanfic **Policing Middle Earth. ** While this gave me the general idea and I'm homaging the same vein of mutual misunderstanding between the Discworld and Middle Earth, I've tried hard not to nick any of the jokes. If I have, do tell me._

* * *

**(1) **Stage magicians on Roundworld have long used the staple trick where the magician will fire a bullet into the face of their Doris or other assistant, who will catch the bullet between her teeth. This spectacular illusion is a guaranteed crowd-pleaser in any show. (Your humble author has done a variant of this trick. The illusion is surprisingly easy to learn, in an environment where guns and ammunition are freely available, and never fails to consternate. In accordance with Magic Circle rules the secret will not be revealed. The hint is – it's an illusion depending on misdirection and build-up.) On the Discworld, where _gonnes _are frowned upon, a magician called The Amazing Kevin was hit by a glancing blow from one of those inspiration particles that conveyed _just enough_ of the essence of the trick for him to think he could pull it off with Discworld weapons technology. Fired with enthusiasm, he worked up a trick where he fired a crossbow directly into the face of his Doris, expecting her to catch the quarrel between her teeth. She accomplished this feat perfectly, and, as a crossbow quarrel is about eight inches long, somewhat terminally. This performance stopped the show. Well, Commander Vimes stopped the show, booking Kevin for manslaughter and Being Bloody Stupid. Doris's name went on the Roll of Honour at the Guild of Fools, Joculators, Jesters, Minstrels, Mime-Artists, Conjurors, Dorises, Circus Performers, and People Who Wear Those Bloody Silly Costumes At Theme Parks **(2), **which in the manner of a war memorial, immortalises those who really did die onstage in the service of Entertainment. The Amazing Kevin was invited by the Patrician to become Conjuror-In-Residence at the Tanty, for the delight, confusion and further education of all. **(3)**

**(2) **In the early chapters of **_Making Money, _**the brassica-related theme park in the town of Big Cabbage is described, with particular reference to Cauliflower the Clown, whose unfeasibly large costumed head has given delight and early trauma to thousands of children. A fellow clown called Billy Brassica is also mentioned. This raises the hideous spectre of the Guild of Fools being responsible for selecting and training people who actually _want _to wear those bloody silly costumes in theme parks, or indeed as sports club mascots. This makes sense. Cauliflower the Clown could only call himself a clown if he was a Fools' Guild graduate. Or else the Jolly Good Pals would have been onto an unlicenced practitioner – and his employers – like a bag of cement down the trousers.

**(3) **The Amazing Kevin was recaptured by the Watch, following a demonstration of his skills where he earned life membership of the Guild of Lags and Lifers, by making a bunch of jail keys belonging to the former Prison Officer McGlinchy disappear. This was closely followed by his own disappearance along with several other cons who wanted to be part of the collective disappearing act. Deputy Governor Bellamy, then a very junior officer, was heard to remark that allowing him to practice his skills in-house and put on a show for the other prisoners was just asking for it, especially when he invited the unsuspecting Officer McGlinchy up on stage to be the member of the audience who participated in the act. Although all present agreed that Gorgeous George was a big hit in the leotard and spangly tights and head-dress. **(4)**

**(4) **George, a prisoner held by all to be good for morale and a hit at parties, became Delicious Doris for the night. There, four footnotes and I haven't even started the story yet.

**(5) **The first porcelain to arrive in Ankh-Morpork from Agatea had caused a sensation. In a city where a half-pint mug with a big handle and a crudely-written off-colour joke on the outside was considered posh, nobody believed you could make a teacup that dainty and delicate and so thin you could practically see through it. Bone Agatea tea-services were an expensive luxury, affordable only by the richest households as a status symbol, until the first troll artisans arrived. In the hands of such as Chalky the troll and Igneous, the secret of making the stuff was soon cracked. Igneous proved adept in making copies, genially remarking that _we make stuff like dis at home. We used to use der calcium-rich powdered bones of humans for dis delicate stuff, but not here!_ delegating the fine work to human employees, and Bone Agatea became available to nearly everyone. Factories in Quirm took up the manufacture and a good tea service now costs barely a dollar-fifty.

**(6) **This accounted for the exception on the door welcoming "vampires of respectable social class". Doreen would sometimes drop by for tea and a scone dripping with runny strawberry jam. Like Lady Margalotta and the pink cardi embroidered with bats, Doreen considered it paid to subtly advertise. Just as genuine Überwaldeans like Angua kindly did not call Doreen out on her pretentions to being from Überwald, resident Quirmians like Madame Deux-Epées from the Assassins' Guild might drop in for a spot of afternoon tea but refrain from speaking Quirmian, so as not to embarrass her. Emmanuelle les Deux-Epées had realised something was amiss when she innocently ordered _une tasse du thé au lait, si vous plait, avec une cuill__è__re de sucre_ and was met by a pleadingly blank look. She had realised instantly, had said something face-saving about her own Quirmian city dialect perhaps being too proletarian and heavy to understand, _peut-__ê__tre_, and had repeated the order in Morporkian.

**(7) **Because Tolkein's lawyers object to you using any other word beginning with "h" to dcescribe them, that's why.


	15. Meanwhile on Brewer Street

_**The Civilian Assistant: 14/2**_

_**The Other Riot**_

Vimes saw the dejected Fellowship of the Ring booked into custody. He made a mental note not to forget to ask about these bloody Black Riders who, without so much of a word of introduction, had taken it upon themselves to bloody well knock the Deosil Gates down, injuring one of his Watchmen. It was conclusive proof that they'd actually existed, after all, and hadn't just been dreamed up by those pint-sized vandals in the cells. Vimes wondered if there was an inverse relationship between height and propensity to anger and violence – ie, the shorter you got, the madder you got. Look at the bloody Feegle, for instance. And the tallest, largest, life forms, like for e.g. Ents and Golems, tended towards gentleness and pacifism. Precious Jolson, for instance, who just _looked_ like bad news. If provoked she could scowl a troll into backing down, and back home in Howondaland she'd petted leopards as if they were housecats – the leopards had had the sense not to get riled at this – but Vimes knew her spare-time passion for exotic cagebirds, both her home collection and at the Zoo. If directed to patrol the Zoo, she'd interpret this selectively as meaning the Aviary.** (1)**

OK, so the Deosil Gate had been held on by one hinge and an elastic band and desperately needed repair. But Vimes still had an uneasy feeling that Vetinari was going to get _sarcastic_ about this.

"You could have fought them off, Aragorn. I don't understand." the halfling called Frodo Dragosson Baggins had said. The tall Ranger had shaken his head.

"These people are the Law in these parts. You cannot interfere with a servant of the Law. It is against the Ranger code."

"Don't see why." grumbled Sam Gamgee, the little fat one. "When he tried to enforce Last Orders at the Green Dragon, did Justin the Hayward, he got himself a punch in the eye and thrown in the pond, he did!"

There had been a strange moment when Carrot, back from the Palace, had looked Arathornsson in the eye. Both had involuntarily stepped back, as if recognising a peer.

"It is given to me to know things and to see further than other Men." Arathornsson had said, portenteously. "In this place you should be King. How may I serve the King of this land?"

The escorting Watchmen had the sense to drag their captive towards the cells, really quickly. Carrot shook his head, puzzled.

"I'm glad not many people were around to hear that, and they're all Watchmen." Vimes said. "We can put that little outburst down to mental instability, I think. Anyone believing in the manifest destiny of Kings has got to beat least a_ little_ bit four-twenty-one.** (A)** Now tell me where we are with the other thing, and I'll brief you on that bunch of headcases I've just sent to the cells. Deal?"

The Other Thing had begun earlier that morning. Goatbergers' publishers had been taking out big adverts in the Times to announce a new range of novels aimed at the growing Troll community in Ankh-Morpork. Vimes had paid little attention, judging it another cash-in attempt to try to attract something of the Silicon Solvem, the Lichen Lira, the Dolomite Dollar, the free income a rapidly upmobile Troll community was getting from its many jobs and careers in the City. More and more trolls were becoming literate, too, although Vimes still inwardly speculated that a novel for Trolls would necessarily have to include lots of pictures and very short words. Therefore he had judged that only a token Watch presence was necessary for the book launch at the publishers on Brewer Street.

Inspector Pessimal had not been so sure and had suggested to Vimes that the two Watchmen he'd sent down to Brewer Street should be reinforced. Although doubtful, Vimes knew better than to dismiss another born copper's intuition, and sent Constables Bauxite and Flint to assist. After all, they were trolls policing an event aimed at trolls.

Bauxite and Flint had looked at each other, nodded, and followed orders with just enough hesitation to get Vimes wondering. _Well, _he thought, _it's an easy assignment. And just round the corner, too. It'll all be over by mid-day and they can stroll back for lunch, the Yard's only five minutes walk away. _

Sometimes, even a copper with Sam Vimes' street experience can get it wrong.

The roar of noise grew steadily and was audible even from the Yard. Reports started coming in concerning a big disturbance on Brewer Street. Constable Bauxite, clearly shaken, came running back to the Yard. He looked like he'd been trampled on.

"_Dey're out of control, sir!" _he reported, wide eyed and shaken.

"Who are?" Vimes demanded. He'd been dealing with miss Maccalariat's increasingly imperative demands for assistance with tricky case files.

"It _ugly_, sir!" Bauxite said. A frightened troll is not a comforting sight. It leads the thoughtful onlooker to wonder what is out there which has caused a ton of silicon muscle to start, almost literally, excreting rectangular building things. Other troll officers had stopped and were listening intently. They did not seem surprised and seemed gloomy and resigned. Vimes wondered, once again, why he seemed to be the last to be informed. _Something_ was going on. And he didn't know about it. This worried him. He tried to tune into a low conversation in Trollish going on; Trollish was another of those languages a policeman needed to pick up a smattering of, although he was aware that his command of the language was patchy and full of street-slang. He couldn't hold a conversation with, for instance, the Diamond king or even Prince Carborundum, his Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork, in pidgin street Troll. He'd learnt something similar on his visit to Überwald a year or two back: the clerk-Assassin Inigo Skimmer had saved his bacon, when he'd used street-dwarfish on an affronted Dwarf Army colonel with several hundred axes to back him up.**(2)**

"_Aaoograha hoa agroohoahaa' acrhrooa alohana..."_

Vimes painfully reassembled this in his head. "She...singular... who it is imperative to avoid... no, _they, feminine plural, _who must be avoided... whose fearsome feet and fists cannot be stopped in their... forward motion as of stones tipping to begin the avalanche... "

An icy and frightening thought hit Vimes. Carrot had also been listening and he paled too.

"Carrot. _Aaoograha hoa. _Isn't that their word for that witch from Lancre way? I remember you told me once."

Carrot nodded.

"Only I don't think they're talking about Mistress Weatherwax, sir. They're using the plural."

Vimes groaned.

"More than one? The last time those bloody witches visited Goatberger, they took him for thousands. Admittedly he owed it to them, but..." **(3)**

Carrot shook his head. His normally good-natured face had taken on an aspect of worried concern.

"I don't think it's witches, sir. Something _worse _than that."

"Something worse than witches, Carrot?" Vimes queried.

"Something nearer and more immediate, sir." Carrot said.

He would have added more, but a delegation of troll officers had formed. These now included a very battered-looking Constable Flint. The delegation, by common consent, was headed by Sergeant Detritus, who threw up a very smart salute.

"Permission to go on a grandmother's funeral, sir?" Detritus asked. The trolls behind him nodded, soundlessly beseeching Vimes, who blinked.

"What, _all_ of you? All your grandmothers died at once? On the same day? And anyway, old trolls don't die as such. They lie down and consider questions of ontology and epistemology, don't they?"

Detritus saluted again. Vimres noticed that his sergeant, normally unflappable, looked _especially_ worried. This was rare.

It am Constable Norite's grandmother, sir. She very popular and well-loved troll. It only right we all pay respects."

Vimes considered. It was an elegant way out of it if his troll officers were othewrwise at risk of disobeying a direct order or refusing to do their duty. Something had spooked them. He had an idea that he'd very soon find out what it was. And he wasn't going to push things by giving an order he was sure they'd refuse. He nodded.

"Ok then, grandmothers' funeral it is." The trolls nodded thanks, then about-turned and ran for the door. Vimes called after them "By the way, if Norite's granny was so well loved that you've _all _got to be there, then where are Officers Jade and Smoked Obsidian?"

The two troll policewomen were conspicuous by their absence.

"They down at Goatbergers', sir. Policing the...thing... and negg-o-tee-ate-ing... with _them_."

"Who are_ them_?" Vimes called.

He sighed.

"Carrot, round up the golems."

"Sir. By the way, thanks Cheery, message just in via Omniscope Control."

"Irina. Hmm."

Vimes took the omniscope fragment that Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom was anxiously holding up to him. A voice both nearby and distant spoke out of the air.

_Sir, we need lots of back-up! Urgently! Big incident on Brewer Street. Looks like Goatbergers is being wrecked! From up here it looks like a Hell of a mess, and there are Watchmen in there! _

Air Policewoman Irena Politek angled her omniscope downwards to capture the scene in Brewer Street below. Vimes saw it on the relay, realised instantly, and cursed himself for being an idiot. He also ran for the door.

_All officers! Now! Brewer Street! Cheery, clear out the canteen! Carrot, have you got those bloody golems? We'll need them!_

* * *

Now it was all too clear. As Officers Dorfl, Kvetch and Nudnik lumbered down Brewer Street to join them, Vimes, Carrot and Cheery contemplated the scene in front of them. The sheer wall of sound was like a physical battering, for one thing. So many stones were in flight, although not aimed at the Watchmen, that the sky looked like a solid wall. And the worst of it was...

"Cheery, nobody's going to blame you if you sit this one out." Vimes said. "There are at least two hundred trolls there and they're all a bit excitable. Perhaps the last thing it needs right now are dwarfs."

Cheery Littlebottom shook her head. She looked terrified, but seemed determined to go on.

"You said it yourself, sir. There are no ethnicities in the Watch and nobody should be able to dictate what sort of Watchman attends a shout. I'm here. This is the job in front of me."

"And they're not _just_ trolls, sir." Carrot said. "Have you noticed they're all female?"

It was true: the dense mass of trolls **(4) ** in front of them all had a slightly less _craggy_ and somewhat more _feminine_ aspect to them. The telltale signs were there: well gardened lichen, a general indefinible sort of _roundedness_, the fact they were a little bit shorter than the males, interesting veins and protusions of semi-precious stones that males generally didn't have – and some were even wearing makeup and shoes. Vimes was prepared to bet that if any turned round, they'd display lips sanded and polished absolutely smooth, and painted interesting shades of the red spectrum. One troll was a very pleasing ultramarine blue colour all over, flecked and tiger-striped with gold. He'd seen her before...

"Lapislazuli, sir. Stylist at Conina's hair salon. _Lazuli_, for short." Carrot provided. "She's done Angua's hair before now."

Vimes nodded. The image of a troll hairdresser was hard to take in.

"She usually does other trolls, sir. But Conina uses her to do hairwashes and tints for human and Dwarf women, if the main salon's short-handed. Angua says she's got a surprisingly gentle touch."

The troll female with a gentle touch picked a lump of masonry out of the air that must have weighed twenty pounds, and effortlessly volleyed it up again. It narrowly missed a descending broomstick, which swerved to avoid it. The pilot steered it down to the Watch group.

"Sir!" said Witch Police Constable Irina Politek, urgently. "It's _serious_ down there! There are four Watch members stuck right in the middle of that! They can't get out for all these trolls!"

"Goatbergers?" said Vimes. She nodded.

"Anyone hurt? If there is, I'm having that bugger, and _sod _the right to free publishing!"

"Not yet, sir." Irina said. "Visit and Nobby are hiding behind Smokey and Jade. They're holding the other trolls off and deflecting all the flying rock. But they're getting tired."

Vimes made an instant decision and jumped on the pillion, holding onto Irina _very carefully_. **(5)**

"Take me in there." he said. "Carrot, organise the golems..."

Carrot was already shouting orders to the three golems. This was an All Officers, Watchmen In Trouble. As Irina fired an almost vertical takeoff to get above the flying rocks, Vimes glimpsed the golems each taking a Watchman up in one arm and advancing.

"This could get tricky, Mr Vimes." Irina said at the top of the parabola. "I'm going to descend as quickly as..."

Vimes nearly screamed as the nose of the stick pointed down and the ground rushed up to meet him. This, he decided, would be added to his Top Ten Bad Things To Remember Just As He Fell Asleep. Not just the speed of the descent and the sudden hit of G-force, but the fact he was seemingly about to impact against two hundred angry trolls.

"... I can." she finished, as the broomstick levelled out. Constable Smoked Obsidian stepped forward and cleared a landing space, by the simple expedient of barging two trolls back into the crowd, allowing Irina to bring the broomstick in behind her. Vimes noted his two female Troll officers had elected to go where all his male trolls had feared to tread.

"No grandmother's funeral for you two, then?" he said, to lighten the mood.

Smokie effortlessly punched a flying brick back into the air.

"Not for _us _trolls, no!" she rumbled. "Troll females, you need other troll females to deal with dem. And dese not angry, sir. Dese just a bit _over-excited." _

Vimes nodded. He realised that anger seemed to be absent from the mob. Otherwise two hundred trolls would have rolled over everything in their path.

"So how do we deal with them?" Vimes asked, wishing he'd thought to issue shields. He watched the sky for more flying debris. Two heads poked out cautiously from around the front door of Goatberger's Publishing House. The facade was a complete mess: pockmarked by flying stone, every window broken, the door shattered and hanging off its hinges. The neighbouring buildings didn't look too healthy either. Excited and enthusiastic trolls were not accurate in their aim.

"Nobby. Visit." he said. "no injuries?"

"Not yet, sir!" said Nobby Nobbs. "We got Mister Goatberger and Mister Cropper here. _And_ the author."

"They're all nicked, Nobby. See they don't escape!"

"Right away, sir! But I don't think anybody's going anywhere!"

"See to it they don't. Smokie, what the Hrlls happened here?"

The troll crowd was beginning to quieten down as the three Golems shouldered their way through, as respectfully as possible, intoning "Watch Officers On Duty. Do Not Offer Obstruction Or Resistance. Thank You. Have a Good And Law-Abiding Day!"

Bright trolls realised there was no contest in a battle of strength with a Golem. Besides, Trolls respected strength. The three Golems were each carrying a piggy-backing Watchman. Carrot, Cheery and Inspector A.E. Pessimal, he noted. Carrot was known to trolls as the only human who'd ever knocked out Detritus in a stand-up fight. Not any old troll. Detritus himself. (**6) **Pessimal, on his very first day out as a Watchman, had launched an insane and determined assault on a troll who was just about to beat Vimes' brains out with a club. (**7)** OK, so he hadn't won the fight: but it had saved Vimes' life, and trolls were not complicated thinkers. Their reasoning was that any human built like dat who is still desperate enough to fight a troll is a human just crazy enough to get it right _next_ time, and who want to be _dat _troll when _dat _happen? And Cheery... well, any Dwarf who'd willingly walk into the middle of two hundred over-excited trolls on her own, well, dat Dwarf needed watchin', too. Besides, she was Watch, and you splatter a Watch dwarf, you got Detritus comin' to explain dat a regrettable ting to do. No sane troll want dat, however much you might hate dwarfs.

"Looks like it's calming down a bit, sir." Carrot said, cheerfully. Raised by Dwarfs – and one part of a Dwarf upbringing is that you're taught to not like trolls very much - he'd got his initial anti-troll sentiment out of the way after his fight with Detritus. They were now pretty much best friends, Detritus respectful and loyal to a human who'd thrown a killer punch that night outside the Mended Drum.

"Dere was a book-signing, sir." Smoked Obsidian said. Vimes reflected that this had been her day off. But Watch days off were conditional and if an off-duty Watchman saw a need to, or could not turn a blind eye, then they could go back on duty in seconds.

"I came down to buy book and meet der author. Maybe give her punch of appreciation, get her to put her mark in der book. But people got excited, dere was a stone thrown to thank der author, _everyone_ started throwing stones, dis happened. Cultural, sir. So when Bauxite ran because him too scared to confront troll females when dey get excited – and dat, sir, is like ting to do with prunes..."

"Prudent?"

"Dat der word, sir! No male troll last five minutes here. Detritus, him special, he might last ten. But result der same. I talk wid Jade and we decide, we Watchwomen, we buddies, we go on duty, and we try to prevent bad tings happening."

Vimes made a mental note to authorise overtime for the two Watch trolls who'd stayed on duty when all else had fled. Hells, it had been their day off, too. _Maybe advance Smokie to corporal. Hell's bells, she'd shown guts and initiative. _

He watched the three golems fanning out to create space and force the crowd back. The stone-throwing was slackening a lot now. He heard a Trollish phrase and painfully rebuild it in his head.

"_Him {{front-of-head-resembles granite}} Vimes. Him go goohulog if trouble happen. Him employ {{Brute-Force-And-Ignorance}}, him married to {{noun indicates female}} Ruby."_

And speaking of...

Two female trolls shouldered their way to the front of the crowd. Vimes recognised both. They might have been sisters; both radiated authority and presence. They stood in front of the silicon sisterhood, silently, arms folded, until their presence was registered. Both, in the troll female community, alpha trolls. And this was known. And respected. Then they spoke sternly to the crowd. There was no dead silence.

Smokie helpfully translated their words into Morporkian.

"Ruby, she wife of Detritus, she say to calm down, be sensible, go home and find a cold place, and then to read der book dat we have all come here to get. She not want to have to slap anybody. And Dolomita, she der female dat belong to Chrysophrase though they not married, she is his, what you call it, like black mammal dat burrow under short green _oograh_, makes mess..."

"His moll?" Vimes said. He knew Dolomita.

"Dat der bunny! His gangster's mole, she say, her troll not like disruption to der commercial life of der City, dis bad for business, and if tings bad for business, Detritus he get upset, and she do not want to deal with Chrysophrase when he get distressed by bad behaviour of other trolls, so can we all be good girls, go home, find coldest place where der head work best, and read book."

Thank you, Smokie." Vimes said, relieved. The troll crowd weas already fading away and the human inhabitants of Brewer Street were cautiously resurfacing. He wondered whether to offer Ruby and Dolomita Watch Special status. He knew it would piss off Chrysophrase if his woman joined the Watch, even as a volunteer part-timer. But troll women needed special handling, and he didn't have nearly enough troll women on the Watch...

Carrot? See to it Goatberger, Cropper and this lady author are cuffed and booked in, would you? Oh, and get me a copy of this bloody Book. Get the manuscripts too if you can. I don't think His Lordship is going to sanction a second edition, somehow. He'll be less sarcastic if he knows I've impounded all the copies, the proofs, and the manuscripts. A.E., put some sort of report together for the palace, will you? Damage caused to the value of, troll riot contained, no arrests possible. Thank you."

* * *

"And that's it?" Vimes said, later. "This is what caused all the bloody trouble? Soft pornography? Aimed at bloody _trolls_? Is that bloody man insane, Carrot? Inflame the passions of two hundred troll females and... Io, give me strength. What's this sodding steamy book called, anyway, Carrot?"

Captain Carrot coughed, nervously.

"_Fifty Grades of Shale,_ sir."

Vimes grimaced.

"I suppose I'd better try to rad it myself, Carrot. Or at least skim it. It is written in Morporkian?"

"There are two editions, sir. One in Morporkian and one in troll runes. I'd get you the manuscript, but we gave it to Miss Maccalariat to catalogue and log in the evidence file and... well, Mr Pessimal's still trying to get it off her."

"Take me to her, Carrot."

It was worse than he thought. Miss Maccalariat was in a state of rigid catatonia, the offending manuscript held out at arm's length, as if she had been so unutterably shocked and disgusted by something she had read that it had sent her into a trance. Her jaw had dropped and her eyes widened behind her glasses, she still clenched the document in both hands, is if fully intending to remind herself later of what it was that had so badly shocked her in the first place.

A.E. Pessimal stood back form the desk and awaited orders.

"I'm afraid I was not able to retrieve it, sir." he said, apologetically.

"So you gave the Maccalariat a dirty book to read." Vimes said, breathing heavily."By all accounts, a _seriously _dirty book."

"I'm afraid so, sir." Carrot agreed. His face was unreadable.

"And it's made her go into shock. Badly."

"It would appear so, sir." Carrot's face now radiated honest innocence.

"And she is now in no position to hector, browbeat, impose, nag, enforce her not inconsiderable personality, nor to loom over, anyone in this building."

"That's what it looks like, sir."

Vimes grinned. There had to be _some_ compensations to a day like this.

"Well done, Carrot. No hurry in getting it off her. We don't want to tear the evidence, after all, and it is the only copy!"

* * *

**(1) **Vimes had a whole list of issues with officers sent out to the Zoo Watch-house. He'd insisted a new Watch-house be established in the vicinity, after the Assassins who dealt with security there had used lethal force against Agatean thieves trying to steal some of the animals. Vimes wanted both Assassins and Thieves of whatever nationality to be fully aware of who REALLY enforced the law, ie, not them. He was now aware, for instance, that Nobby Nobbs needed a laminated official statement to vouch for his being fully human, despite appearances, and that he was _not_ an escaped exhibit. An inexperienced troll keeper had once put Nobby back in with the chimpanzees, despite his vocal protest. Nobby had been found a couple of hours later, having introduced several chimps to the pleasures of smoking. He was sitting on a branch partway up a tree, sharing a dimp with an equally disgruntled-looking chimp. Even though the troop had fully accepted Nobby as a member, Miss Smith-Rhodes had not been amused by the chimps being introduced to smoking. As well as Precious Jolson's partiality to the aviary, Vimes also had to take into account Angua von Überwald's tendency to sit by the Hubland Timber Wolves' enclosure talking to the inmates, and hearing their stories of life in captivity. On top of this, his Dwarf officers had a tendency to congregate in the Rodents and Rat House, pressing their collective nose up against the reinforced glass and salivating over the coypus and capybaras. Until these had arrived at the Zoo, Dwarfs had never seen so many calories running around on four legs before. To a Dwarf, a coypu was like a Hogswatch turkey. It was _hard_ to select a detail to be trusted with patrolling the Zoo.

And then there was what had happened to Constable Visit, a Watchman who was inclined towards stopping outside the enclosure of an especially enthralling exhibit, and exclaiming on the munificent bounty of the Great God Om's creation. One day he had delivered a spontaneous and fervent sermon on how it was explicitly a creation by the Great god Om that had brought all this about, that everything had been called into being whole and unaltered by Om on the Third Day of Creation, and there should be none of this dangerous and un-Omly nonsense spoken about the lie of evolution. At this point zoo director Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had pursed her lips at the inference that Evolution was a satanic deception, took several measured steps back. Assassin graduates are trained to recognise trouble. Others, seeing a retreating Assassin much as a Dwarf respects a canary in a coal mine, stepped back too, leaving Visit in the middle of a widening ring of free space. The lightning bolt, delivered by an entity later identified as the God of Evolution, did not kill Visit or seriously incapacitate him. The God of Evolution can get annoyed like any other deity, but He is liberal enough to abhor killing. His lightning bolts are designed to instruct rather than maim. With His loyal servants, the beetles, everywhere (especially in a Zoo boasting extensive etymological facilities), this God has a most efficient spy network in the Discworld. Creationism is high-risk advocacy on the Discworld. Visit recovered in time to be beseiged by trolls.

**(A) **Apologies - footnote **(A**) inserted on rewrite. I came across a Code 421 while doing Net research. It was too good not to use. Several American police forces use it as shorthand for "_perpetrator appears to have mental health problems". _This is elaborated upon with "421A", "421-double-A" and "421 triple-A" to denote degree of potentially dangerous insanity involved. to the Arizona Sherriff's Department, a "_four-two-one-triple-A_" denotes "_absolutely completely nucking futjo_b".

**(2) **see _**the Fifth Elephant **_by Terry Pratchett.

**(3) **see _**Maskerade **_by Terry Pratchett.

**(4) **Never, even if seriously tempted, to be spoken as _"a mass of dense Trolls"_. They may speak Trollish, but they listen in Human.

**(5) **If a witch invites you up on the pillion, you have to be sure which bits of the witch you are holding onto. Unless it's a witch of the Nanny Ogg school of thought and she's tacitly invited you, you've got to be careful. There is a _strict _etiquette to these things. Irina and Olga had very carefully instructed any possible pillion passengers, so as to prevent misunderstandings.

**(6) **see _**Guards! Guards! **_by Terry Pratchett.

**(7) **see _**Thud! **_by Terry Pratchett.


End file.
